


breathless words, bloody knees

by leafpile



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Mentions of past Kageyama Tobio/Tsukishima Kei, Non-Binary Kuroo Tetsurou, Skateboarding, Slow Burn, Trans Tsukishima Kei
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:41:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26393551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leafpile/pseuds/leafpile
Summary: “I’ve seen you around over the past week, always just sitting here. You can’t skate?” The stranger asks.Kei doesn’t miss their slightly instigating tone, the goading nature of the question, and he briefly considers not answering, out of pure spite. Something tells him—the tiny twitch at one corner of their mouth, the mischievous glow to their eyes—that he’s beingpurposelyprovoked.“Idon’tskate,” he says simply.(in which tsukishima kei finds himself intrinsically tangled with the world of skateboarding, including the addition of a pretty stranger with unforgivably bad hair.)
Relationships: Kuroo Tetsurou/Tsukishima Kei
Comments: 12
Kudos: 93





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> did anybody order a very niche and self indulgent skateboarding au, with a side of gender? no? ok well here it is regardless :0) (thats my clown nose). kuroo uses they/them pronouns in this fic! also tsukki is trans but it's not really mentioned much, he just is
> 
> little **tw** for a mild injury at the end of the first part, featuring mentions of blood, but nothing too graphic. stay safe friends! <3
> 
> (title is taken from _[flying model rockets — the front bottoms](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_C9xDCehW6I)_ )

Sometimes, Kei isn’t sure how he finds himself with such drastic changes to his meticulously planned out life schedule.

It’s a very simple schedule, in all honesty: he wakes up, dodges several missed calls and unread texts from his brother, goes to work, comes home, and calls Tadashi; he then either gets roped into a four-hour long video call with Tadashi and Yachi, receives an impromptu and unannounced visit from Hinata and Kageyama, or—and this is his favourite, but the rarest happenstance—he manages to spend the rest of his evening by himself, doing the things that he wants to do.

That’s all.

Sitting on the train as Hinata and Kageyama quietly ramble to each other about the skatepark they’re heading to check out—that was never a part of his plans and it was never going to _be_ a part of his plans.

The three of them live in varying areas of Tokyo, having moved from Sendai for their own personal reasons, which range from completely reasonable and understandable (attending the University of Tokyo) to somewhat ridiculous and incredibly irresponsible (following the sudden booming rise in popularity for skating culture). Kei was more than a little shocked when he received a call from Hinata a mere month ago, his usual happy-go-lucky tone on the other end of the line as he loudly announced he and Kageyama were moving into a place in Shibuya, just thirty minutes from Kei’s own place in Minato.

Kei didn’t bother to ask why. Hinata had told him anyways.

(“There’s like, way cooler skateparks in Tokyo than there is in Sendai,” he’d rambled on enthusiastically, “there’re more skaters too, which is more people to befriend, y’know! Plus, Kageyama is tired of being yelled at by that old lady on our street, the one I’ve told you about before—”)

Their train eventually comes to a stop and Hinata—before the doors are even open yet—excitedly pushes for Kei to move, hands on his back and guiding him along through the crowds of people, with Kageyama somehow keeping pace besides him despite staring down at the phone in his palm. He’s sporting that vaguely confused expression that Kei is, unfortunately, all too familiar with, so he leans over Kageyama’s shoulder to spare a look at the screen and is faced with a standard looking map.

“I’m scared to ask why you’re already confused,” Kei drawls, “we haven’t even left the station yet.”

“I don’t know which…” Kageyama trails off and then points a finger at the screen, looking up at Kei, “which way are we facing?”

Kei stares at him for a moment before wordlessly taking the phone out of his hand.

“Who even let you be in charge of directions?” he sighs, “because it certainly wasn’t me.”

“Hey,” Hinata laughs suddenly, chiming in, “do you remember when he got lost on the way to your place and ended up forty minutes away?”

 _“Please_ ,” Kei huffs out an amused noise, “don’t even get me started on the King and his excellent map-reading skills.”

Kageyama decides to interject to try and defend himself, somehow, shoving at Kei’s shoulder as he joins in on the discussion, and their walk to the Komozawa skatepark is filled with playful bickering and endless stories of the hundreds of times Kageyama has failed to follow simple directions; Kei points out their turn every so often and Hinata pulls at his arm to drag him along, as if he would suddenly leave them after coming this far.

Every time Kageyama’s skateboard grazes his side, grip tape dragging along his clothing, he does _briefly_ reconsider why he bothered getting out of bed for this.

He tends to spend his days off from work napping, or at the very least relaxing, catching up on some TV and eating all of the unhealthy and sickly-sweet snacks that he can get his hands on without having Tadashi or Akiteru looming over his shoulder to tell him he should be eating _“real food”_. Kei eats real food too, he just eats the snacks before. And after. He’s _twenty-four_ , he’s allowed to snack.

Hinata and Kageyama visiting him during the day isn’t unheard of, since they frequently show up whenever they feel like it, but sometimes they might warn Kei with a phone-call when they’re already five minutes down the road from his apartment.

Today, like most days, they had arrived unannounced and knocked loudly on Kei’s door until he opened it, and then casually let themselves in while Hinata babbled on about their plans—plans that definitely included Kei despite not even asking him yet—and Kageyama would look around at the place with a judging expression as if he hasn’t been inside _plenty_ of times since moving to Tokyo; almost daily, at this point. Kei didn’t need to listen to whatever Hinata was saying, knowing the duo’s plans already from the worn-out sneakers on their feet and the skateboards attached clumsily to their backpacks.

They had found out that there’s a skatepark not too far from where they both live, and _of course_ , dragging Kei along on their impromptu adventure to Komazawa was crucial. He couldn’t simply stay home and enjoy his day off, and he totally had to go to a skatepark despite the fact he doesn’t skate, has never skated, and will _never_ skate.

Reasonably, Kei doesn’t have to go. He could very easily say no. He says no to a lot of things in his life, fairly frequently, actually. He could simply turn his phone off and refuse to answer the pounding at his apartment door.

He doesn’t, because he’s not _that_ much of an asshole, and because he’s a good friend— _well_ , he tries to be, because like he said: not a _complete_ asshole.

So, his very kind and tolerating personality is how he winds up at the skatepark, idiots in tow. It’s arguably a nice day out, gentle breeze ruffling Kei’s hair as he immediately settles himself down on the ground, tucking his legs in and pressing his back against the wall to stay as far out of the way as possible. There’s a couple of other people here, skating and minding their own business, and the last thing Kei wants is to trip a stranger with his _“ridiculously gangly legs”_ , as Hinata so affectionately refers to them as.

“Why do you guys even need me here?” He sighs, glancing up and watching Hinata push his bright hair out of his face with a floral-print headband, “you make me look ridiculous, sitting here like an outsider.”

“You do that all by yourself,” Hinata says casually, jumping away from a weak kick towards his shin, “besides, you’re our moral support.”

“You don’t need moral support, you’re already good.”

“See!” Hinata beams, giving a thumbs up, “you’re great at it!”

Kei gives a sarcastic smile, sickly sweet, and then rolls his eyes. Kageyama decides to chime in with his own suggestion, tossing his backpack onto the ground next to Kei and casually rolling his skateboard back and forth under his foot.

“First aid,” he says simply, “you’ve always been good at that.”

Kei tilts his head. He _is_ good at dealing with their injuries, but only because the two of them are so prone to getting hurt yet also so completely _useless_ at managing those problems. Kei carries around endless medical supplies and boxes of colourful band-aids just for when either of the dumbass duo hit a pebble and inevitably go tumbling to the ground, which has happened so many times that Kei doesn’t even find it funny anymore, unfortunately.

(He remembers when they were all younger, teenagers sat outside Tadashi’s house, and the countless times Kageyama would trip or fall, pretending like he hadn’t just faceplanted the ground or that there wasn’t an obvious dislocation to his finger; Kei would have to drag him to the side of the street, tugging at him to sit down on the curb, and carefully set his injuries back into place or gently clean up any blood. They’d developed a mutual trust for this sort of thing, Hinata included, and Kei is still their apparent immediate choice for first aid.)

After a meaningless argument of Hinata poking fun at Kageyama for cuffing his sweatpants halfway up his calves—because his _“legs get sweaty”_ , apparently—and in return, Kageyama mocking Hinata for wearing a skirt when he’s inevitably going to hurt his knees (he’s right, which is something Kei rarely admits), the two of them eventually kick their boards down and skate away with little hesitation. Hinata throws Kei a small wave over his shoulder and then Kei is left alone, in an empty corner of the bustling skatepark, guarding a pile of backpacks and listening to the atmospheric sounds of wheels speeding over concrete and decks sliding along rails.

Kei has never particularly felt like he belonged, in places like these. There’s a lot to be said about how he never really feels like he belongs anywhere, but it’s startlingly obvious when he stops to compare himself to those around him; Kageyama and Hinata blend in seamlessly, not only in appearance but in personality too, effortlessly confident despite not quite being on the same level yet as some of the other skaters here. Kei isn’t a skater, so he can’t help but dwell on how he sits to the side and most likely sticks out like a sore thumb, his turtleneck sweater and messenger bag being a sharp contrast to the sea of ripped jeans and brightly patterned t-shirts.

He fidgets with the headphones neatly folded atop his lap, the cord wrapped loosely around his fingers.

Still, it doesn’t bother him too much when he lets his mind wander or occupies himself with something else, and when push comes to shove, if he’s finished the current book he’s reading or he can’t really find anything he feels like listening to, it’s always mildly entertaining to just sit back and watch the skating.

Kageyama and Hinata keep somewhat to themselves, competitively racing up and down a small flat strip of land away from the rails and pipes, where the majority of the other skaters appear to be practicing. Kei has witnessed the same scene unfold hundreds of times now over the years, with Hinata trying to nudge Kageyama off-balance as he rides past him, or Kageyama purposely weaving in front of Hinata, or even both of them tumbling to the ground—not from sabotage, but from simply not looking where they were going and colliding with a step or hitting the curb of the street; Kei decides to deal with any oncoming injuries when they get to that point, and for the meantime, shifts his focus elsewhere.

There are people skating everywhere, ages ranging from young teenagers to people only slightly older than Kei himself, and while everyone seems to be sporting different aesthetic styles, it’s still obvious to Kei upon first glance that if he saw any of these strangers in the street, he feels like he would _know_ that they were skaters. He considers that maybe Hinata and Kageyama were right, about Tokyo being slightly different than Sendai in its approach to skate culture.

Someone cruises past Kei then, casual and content, the bright yellow of their sweatpants catching his attention—their hair is similarly bright, the yellow tone indicative of a fresh coat of bleach rather than a salon toned blonde, and a dark undercut peeking out from underneath—and he watches them head towards one of the adequately sized halfpipes in the centre of the park.

Sitting at the top of the halfpipe, legs kicking idly at the ramp below, is a stranger with a hairstyle that catches Kei’s gaze _again_ : black and white, or more specifically white with dark silver streaks, messily falling down out of a loose baseball cap. They don’t seem much older than Kei himself, and if their hair weren’t a call for attention, then the way that they excitedly holler and shout out to someone skating the ramp certainly seems to be doing the trick. A few heads turn their way before quickly losing interest, which Kei interprets as the other skaters either being _used_ to the wild-haired loudmouth, or simply being unbothered.

At least everyone will adjust to Hinata’s equally obnoxious yelling, when he eventually settles himself in and feels more at home in the skatepark that they’re _undoubtedly_ going to frequent.

There’s another person on the halfpipe—actually skating, unlike their friend lounging on the deck and cheering—and they skate up towards the coping with enough speed to effortlessly step up onto the deck, catching their board out of the air as they do so. They give a casual curtsy before pulling their beanie off and ruffling their hair; Kei wonders if having bad hair is just part of being a skateboarder, some crucial rule that _everybody_ has to abide by.

 _This_ unruly stranger—their hair dark and messy, just long enough to tie back into a _tiny_ ponytail, wavy bangs almost covering one of their eyes—sits themself down next to their silver-and-white-haired friend, and Kei’s eyes widen in mild surprise when he notices their gaze shift to meet his.

Even from this distance, Kei can recognize a smirk when he sees one.

He quickly looks away.

A distraction thankfully catches his attention, a stray board without its rider clattering against the wall next to Kageyama’s backpack, and without even needing to hear the yelling approaching him, Kei already knows who it belongs to.

“Please tell me you haven’t broken a bone,” he drawls, pushing the board back towards a vaguely out-of-breath Hinata, “you’ve been here less than thirty minutes and I’m not in the mood to sit in the emergency room for five hours.”

“I’ve never broken a bone in my life,” Hinata grins, looking _far_ too proud of himself over something so mundane, and then he frowns before kicking his leg forward and rolling his ankle dramatically, the fabric of his long skirt falling aside to reveal his dirty sneakers, “I might have sprained something, though.”

“Right, of course you have,” Kei lightly shoves Hinata’s foot away from where he’s still twisting it in Kei’s vicinity. “Let me get back to my peace and quiet, will you?”

Hinata pouts, rolling his board under his foot for a few seconds as Kei returns the silent staring competition they seem to be having, and then he mutters an exasperated _“fine”_ before swivelling around and pushing off. Kei watches him cruise back towards the actual park, confident and carefree in his relaxed stance on the board, and he lets out a little laugh when Hinata smacks Kageyama over the back of the head as he rides by.

With the two of them back to skating—or, _well_ , with Kageyama chasing after Hinata as they both weave distractedly between other skaters—Kei decides to slip his headphones on and settle himself into a more comfortable position where he’s still sitting on the ground. He’s actually fairly used to it, what with being the constant third wheel to people who spend most of their time outdoors and cruising the street on little wooden boards. Keeping himself out of the way and tucked into a neat corner is purely second nature to him, now.

His music starts to play softly through his headphones, cancelling out the sounds of talking and yelling and laughter, no longer listening to the rumble of wheels along concrete or decks against rails, instead he can find time to enjoy the steady drumbeats and thrumming bassline of a band that Yachi recommended to him last week.

It’s easy for the time to pass, like this. Watching people skate—strangers, nonetheless—isn’t usually on his list of _“ways to relax on your day off”_ , but there’s something oddly peaceful about it, sitting in the sun and letting the cool breeze ruffle his hair as he listens to music and shuts his brain off. He guesses that it’s no different to sitting on his couch and watching something on the TV that he’s only half paying attention to, except this time he’s outdoors, and every so often Hinata will zoom past and throw something at him or Kageyama will casually and silently collect his water bottle from his backpack—which, now that he thinks about it, is still ridiculously similar to when the duo are present in Kei’s apartment.

He’s surprised they at least have the common sense not to try and skate around his living room.

The hours slip by, sky shifting from bright blue to something a little more dull, shadows stretching further along the ground and mapping over Kei’s lazily outstretched legs, and it doesn’t take much longer before two dishevelled and hideously sweaty idiots are standing before him, boards resting at their sides as they wordlessly pick up their backpacks with content grins on their faces.

Kei slides his headphones down around his neck and then clambers up off the ground, ignoring the faint _pop_ of his knees and definitely ignoring the mocking _“ew”_ Hinata gives him in response, like he has any room to comment when his hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat. _Gross_.

He takes a look around as he idly stretches his back, and isn’t at all surprised to find that Hinata and Kageyama seem to be two of the few people left, a sparse comparison to earlier in the day. His eyes pause for a second on where the dark-haired skater is still cruising around with their monochromatic friend, beanie long forgotten and their curly hair even messier in the breeze, but he quickly picks up his own bag from the floor and gives a small nod in an affirmation of _“let’s go”_.

When Hinata falls asleep on his shoulder on the train back home, limbs outspread and snoring quietly to himself, Kei decides that maybe he hasn’t had the _worst_ day.

* * *

Days quickly pass by like they normally do.

Kei wakes up, dodges some more missed calls and unread texts from his brother, goes to work, comes home, and calls Tadashi on the way to the skatepark, with Hinata and Kageyama bickering loudly as they trail behind him.

It’s become a regular part of his routine, the whole _“we have to go skate!_ ” thing, and he can’t exactly say that he hates it. He won’t say that he _enjoys_ it, or anything, sitting around and babysitting these two, but it’s not really _detestable_. It’s an opportune time for him to burn through the books he’s currently reading, and sometimes he’ll facetime Yachi or finally reply back to Aki’s boring texts when he has the hours to kill. Being in the sun is nice, especially since he’s mostly left alone and can sit in peace, and he’s started to grow accustomed to the background noise now. The boards clattering and wheels spinning and cheerful yelling doesn’t quite make him want to force his headphones on the way it did just a week ago.

He still feels out of place, though.

In a single week, Hinata and Kageyama look like they’ve been visiting this park for months. It wasn’t going to be long before Hinata’s loudmouth obnoxiousness drew some attention their way, and it’s not at all surprising to sit back and watch him talk with some of the other skaters that Kei vaguely recognizes as familiar faces, people he’s seen almost every day since they started coming here. Kageyama lingers to the side, careful and cautious whenever he leans forward to add to the conversation, but he’s talking regardless, and Kei feels something stir within him with the way he himself remains glued to the side-lines, an outsider; it’s not that he _wants_ to get up and interject himself into a group of people he probably has nothing in common with, it’s not that at all. He generally hates socialising.

It’s just the _ease_ that Kageyama and Hinata seem to have with making friends, talking, being the type of people who fit in anywhere they go. _Belonging_.

Kei isn’t sure he belongs here.

(Kei isn’t sure he belongs _anywhere_. He knows he will, eventually, but he feels the anxiety settle in his stomach when he thinks about being twenty-four and still not being sure if he has his life figured out yet. _Should_ he have it figured out? He tries not to dwell on it.)

The weather is nice again today, a little cloudy, but Kei prefers not having to shuffle into the shade or resign himself to putting a hand above his eyes. His headphones hang loosely around his neck, music still playing softly and just barely audible as he drags his backpack to his lap and starts rifling through the various snacks Hinata forces him to bring along, attempting to find today’s book beneath the handful of chocolate bars that Kei is _sure_ are melting.

He ignores the sound of a board skating towards him—after so many years, he’d be disappointed in himself if he hadn’t yet mastered the skill of being able to differentiate between the noise of a stray board that’s out of control, and the scuff of a shoe tip against the floor as someone casually pushes along—but it’s not until he notices the shadow of someone sitting down near his outstretched legs that he decides to peer up from his bag.

He expected Kageyama, truthfully.

Instead, he gets the messy-haired stranger.

Kei has seen them often enough now to know that _yes_ , their hair is _naturally_ like that, or it’s at least a very consistent and seemingly effortless style, because it stays like that no matter what style of hat they’re wearing. Kei’s also seen it when it’s not tied back into a ponytail, and he thought the bangs alone were bad—the rest of it is easily comparable to a birds nest, thick and wavy and the curls pointing in ridiculous directions.

It’s just as stupid up close.

 _“Up close_ ” is a crucial part of this strange situation, because Kei has only ever watched them skate by at a distance, and with the small space between them he can now see their face unobscured by their bangs; dark brown eyes, sharpened by the winged eyeliner sweeping out from the corners, a small scar cutting across their eyebrow, and a dusting of faint freckles along the bridge of their straight nose.

The sun reflects off the gold piercings in their ears. Kei counts five in total.

They’re sat casually on their board, legs bent as they rest their folded arms atop their knees—through the rips of their jeans, Kei can see their tan skin marred with bruises and accessorised with a neon pink band-aid—and an open expression settled on their face like they’re not rudely infringing on the personal space of someone they don’t know.

Kei is silent, hand still nestled in his backpack, and he narrows his eyes in lieu of saying anything. It’s partly a glare, but mostly _confusion_ , anticipation building as he waits.

The silence seems to linger for a while before Kei receives a simple response of a tilted head and their dark eyes meeting his, mouth slowly stretching into a small, somewhat _teasing_ grin.

“What’s your deal?” They ask casually, voice a little higher pitched than Kei had thought it would be.

He’s almost distracted enough to not notice the outlandish question he’d been asked. _Almost_.

“Excuse me?”

The stranger—Kei doesn’t want to keep referring to them as this, or with other equally stupid nicknames, but he also doesn’t want to ask them their name; it’s an immediate step towards _acquaintanceship_ , which he doesn’t really find himself wanting, for a plethora of reasons—huffs out an airy laugh, kicking their legs out and rolling a little on their board as they adjust their seating position. They haven’t left yet, seemingly unbothered by Kei’s hostility or otherwise uninterested demeanour.

“Your _deal_ ,” they repeat, dragging the syllables out and then smiling again, “I’ve seen you around over the past week, always just sitting here. You can’t skate?”

Kei doesn’t miss their slightly instigating tone, the goading nature of the question, and he briefly considers not answering, out of pure spite. Something tells him—the tiny twitch at one corner of their mouth, the mischievous glow to their eyes—that he’s being _purposely_ provoked.

“I _don’t_ skate,” he says simply.

The stranger suddenly grins like they’ve beaten Kei at a game he didn’t even know they were playing.

“You can’t skate,” they shrug then, “there’s certainly no shame in that. Everyone starts somewhere.”

For once in his life, Kei doesn’t want to argue over this. It’s absolutely not worth his time to reiterate that _no_ , he _doesn’t_ skate, he doesn’t _want_ to skate, and he’s not here to learn _how_ to skate—Hinata comes to a skidding stop in front of him, slowing his oncoming speed with a messy powerslide.

“Tsukishima—” He pauses, suddenly noticing that they’re not alone, and then pulls a face at Kei, “Why’re you talking to Kuroo?”

Kei furrows his eyebrows, refusing to dwell on the apparent familiarity here, and ignores _Kuroo’s_ pleased little smirk.

“I’m not,” he waves a hand dismissively, “what do you want?”

Hinata hums for a second, a long and drawn out _“umm…”_ , and Kei watches him idly push his board back and forth as he thinks. A few seconds pass before Hinata—like Kei had fully expected him to do—shrugs.

“I forgot,” he says casually.

Kuroo snorts, an ugly but genuine noise, and then covers their mouth to try and hide their obvious laugh. Kei rolls his eyes at the both of them. Hinata apparently becoming buddy-buddy with the most annoying person at the park is hardly news, but Kei is offended that _he’s_ somehow been dragged into it.

“Hey, Kuroo, can you help me learn how to hardflip?” Hinata suddenly pipes up, enthusiastic and as confident as ever, “I’ve seen you nail it every time!”

Kei thinks he might be learning more about Kuroo in this conversation than he would ever care to admit; their eyes seem to light up at the flattery, a wide and happy smile settling on their face as they look up at Hinata—which, considering Kei has watched them skate enough to know that they _are_ significantly better than Hinata, he’s sure the flattery will be coming in high doses.

They have dimples, too. Faint and barely noticeable, like the small beauty mark under their eye, but with the stretch of their grin Kei can see the soft indentations in their cheeks.

“Sure thing, little man.” Kuroo jumps to their feet, brushing down their thighs with their bandaged fingers, and then nods to Hinata, “let’s go.”

Hinata cheers excitedly as he zips away, pushing off the ground and cruising over towards the halfpipe that Kageyama seems to be contently practicing on by himself, and Kuroo moves to follow before pausing, turning back to Kei.

“I’ll catch you later, _Tsukishima_.”

They wink, nudge their board down, and effortlessly kick off.

Kei stares after them with his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth slightly agape, an expression which, if anyone asked, he would call _disgust_. There is absolutely _no_ burning in his cheeks.

He decides to settle back, finally left alone, and pulls his headphones up over his ears as he shuffles to get comfortable. If he happens to be facing the spot where Kuroo and Hinata are practicing, then so be it.

Hinata is a good skater. Kageyama too, really, and while Kei knows next to nothing about skating and the specifics of what makes someone good or bad, in a technical way, he knows that he personally thinks Hinata and Kageyama are pretty good. Though Kei wouldn’t say it to either of their faces, he’s often thought of them being prodigies with how fast they learn and adapt, an endless stream of confidence and willingness to keep pushing themselves further—to the point of frequent injury, unfortunately.

Kei thinks it’s a little stupid, riding around on a wooden board with wheels and almost breaking bones trying to perform silly tricks, but it’s not his hobby. He couldn’t care less about what these two choose to risk their lives for.

(There’s a part of him, deep down and certainly unwilling to admit, that knows skating makes them both _happy_. He’s content to follow along and let them enjoy themselves if that’s why they want, and maybe he’ll patch up a few cuts and scrapes along the way. At least it keeps them from doing something even stupider.)

Hinata knows how to skate, and he’s _good_ at it. He holds himself with an unwavering confidence, a permanent smile plastered on his face, and when he stumbles or loses his balance he simply laughs it off like it’s nothing, always ready to jump back up and try the same weird trick again; like he’s doing now, seemingly trying his best—and failing—to land one successful attempt at a hardflip.

Kuroo stands to the side, laughing a little at each fumbled attempt Hinata tries to pull off, and then they demonstrate it again with perfect precision and an ease that shows they’ve been practicing this for a while. Even when just cruising, where Hinata still minds his feet placement and shifts his weight a specific way, Kuroo skates without seeming to even think about it, effortless, mud-stained sneakers brushing against the floor with each push like it’s purely second nature. Kei vaguely wonders how long they’ve been skating.

If Hinata and Kageyama are good, then Kei thinks Kuroo could be considered a pro. He wouldn’t be surprised at all if that’s what they were aiming for. Their tricks are neat and polished but not overly stiff, their own style and uniqueness seeping through, and there’s a constant grin on their face as they ride around; when they fall, they laugh loudly, an ugly but somewhat _charming_ noise, and they run a hand through their wavy hair and let themselves be pulled up off the ground by their white-and-silver-haired friend.

When Hinata finally lands the hardflip he’s been attempting for the past hour, he breaks out into an obnoxious cheer and Kuroo happily high-fives him in celebration, the sleeve of their hoodie sliding down their forearm to reveal slivers and patches of stark black ink.

Kageyama comes to a stop besides them, apparently intrigued, and Kei watches a short conversation unfold—Hinata bragging, no doubt—before Kageyama tilts his head and casually, without an ounce of hesitation, performs the exact same trick _flawlessly_.

The pure outrage on Hinata’s face is enough to make Kei burst into laughter, quickly covering his mouth with his hand when the three of them turn to glance at him; Hinata frowns while Kageyama gives a little grin, self-satisfied and smug, and when Kuroo’s eyes lock with Kei’s, they smile so genuinely that it’s almost sickening.

He promptly looks away.

On the train back home, while Hinata is still petulantly ignoring Kageyama for quote-unquote _“stealing his moves”_ , it’s no surprise that Hinata strikes up a conversation with Kei instead.

“Kuroo asks a lot of questions about you,” he grins teasingly, “for once, someone actually wants to be your friend.”

Kei scrunches his face up and then takes a second, or two, to think of a careful reply.

“They can stop,” he says slowly, watching Hinata cautiously, “I’m not interested. Two reckless skater friends are already more than I can manage.”

“You like them!” Hinata practically yells, and then quickly covers his mouth and leans in while lowering his voice, “usually you’d just tell me to shut up or you wouldn’t even respond, this is so _cute_ —”

“I don’t _know_ them,” Kei interjects, hushed but stern, hoping the flushing of his cheeks isn’t visible, “I’m incapable of liking someone I don’t know.”

Hinata hums at that, either agreeing or thinking, and Kageyama stays silent. His eyes are closed and his arms are folded across his chest. Kei wouldn’t be surprised if he’s napping, in all honesty.

 _“Still_ ,” Hinata drawls, lighting up, “they’re certainly your type.”

Kei quirks an eyebrow at that, almost _daring_ Hinata to continue.

“What would _you_ know about my type?”

The way Hinata beams back at him is alarming, and Kei regrets saying anything at all about any of this. He hates this entire conversation.

“You always like people who annoy you,” Hinata shrugs, “just look at Kageyama.”

 _“Oi_.” Kageyama interrupts then, cracking one eye open as he tiredly glares at Hinata, “I’m not annoying.”

A few seconds pass, Hinata and Kei looking at each other in a silent understanding, and then the two of them break into unashamed laughter. Kageyama’s responding yelling and immediate bickering earns all three of them a _scathing_ scowl from a nearby old lady.

While Kageyama pouts at the embarrassment of causing a disturbance, Kei and Hinata hold in their muffled giggles all the way home.

* * *

Kei will admit, sometimes, looking around his little apartment with his minimalist décor and the tiniest hints of personality here and there, that he’s kind of lonely.

He’s never been good at dealing with his feelings, any of them at all, but especially not ones like _this_ , and when he feels it creep up on him—clawing, nagging, an ache settling in his heart that leaves him empty and confused—he doesn’t exactly have any adequate solutions. Reasonably, he could call Tadashi, or Yachi, or Aki or his mom, and they’d ramble on about what it’s like back in Sendai, all the latest gossip and drama and Kei will listen intently just so he can feel like a _part_ of something again. He misses them, as much as he denies it on the phone.

He’d said as much to Tadashi, one day, an accidental slip of the tongue while in one of his low moods.

“You sound tired,” Tadashi had drawled, sleepiness lacing his own voice but not masking the genuine concern he had for Kei, “is everything okay over there? Your job going well?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kei was lying lazily atop his bed, pulling at a loose thread on one of his plushies, and then he dropped it to the side as he closed his eyes, “I just—I haven’t seen you in a while, is all.”

It was quiet for a moment. Kei could have dozed off in the silence. Tadashi’s voice was soft when he eventually replied.

“I’ll come visit,” he said slowly, and then tacked on a quiet, “if you need company, you only ever have to ask, Kei. Hinata and Kageyama—”

“They’re not you,” Kei had replied instantly, which he knew immediately wasn’t fair, so he continued on quickly, “Hinata’s a good friend, and Kageyama is okay, I guess—”

“You literally dated.”

“—but you’re my _best_ friend,” he finished, ignoring Tadashi’s jab amidst his ramblings, “sometimes it’s difficult. Being alone.”

It was the easiest that he’s ever shared his feelings with somebody, because being a stubborn bastard has _always_ been his forte, apparently. It’s taken him years to be able to get to this point, and it’s only ever Tadashi—and rarely, Kageyama—who get the pleasure of listening to Kei’s inner most thoughts.

Tadashi had hummed like he understood, always good at that, and knowing Kei was about to immediately backpedal on his moment of weakness, he quickly diverted the subject and began talking about his day.

Kei had texted him a simple _“expect revenge”_ when the troublesome duo began showing up at his apartment almost daily from that point on.

(He had also sent a nondescript _“thanks”_ , because while he’s not going to tell either of them to their face, maybe the constant presence of just having other people around him has helped to stave off the loneliness a little longer.)

So he’s dealing with it. Poorly, probably, he’s sure his brother would say, but he’s dealing with it and that counts for something.

He just happens to be having a bad day again, is all.

There’s a handful of reasons for it, the top item on the list being that he had a vaguely shitty day at work, but he can also place some of the other awful feelings swimming around in his head as dysphoria (his favourite baggy sweater—his comfort hoodie, to a degree—hangs loosely off his frame as he ignores thinking about this one for too long), loneliness (Hinata has the closing shift at his job and Kageyama, as his texts to Kei have revealed, is having dinner with his sister today), and subsequently the _boredom_ of having no one around.

The TV drones on in the background, some bad reality show, and he kicks his feet up onto his couch as he settles an excessively large bowl of ice-cream in his lap.

Kei finds himself somewhat _used_ to feeling bad now, not in a sad way, but just that it doesn’t really bother him the same way it used to. When he first moved in by himself and started feeling shitty, he would mope and wallow and continue to gradually feel worse until someone eventually snapped him out of it, be it through a phone call or a text or physically appearing at his door; now, he tends to just immerse himself in his music and drag himself to the local _konbini_ to stock up on sugary treats that Akiteru would definitely scold him for, if he _truly_ knew how much of Kei’s diet was candy and not anything of real nutritional value.

A text notification flashes on the screen of his phone, and Kei hums to himself as he lazily picks it up.

> **Tadashi** (6:31 pm)  
> Haven’t heard from you much today so I asked Hinata to bring you some takeout when he gets off work. You owe me! <3

Kei huffs out a laugh under his breath, tossing his phone aside, and happily helps himself to another spoonful of ice-cream as he starts to feel just a _little_ bit better.

* * *

It wouldn’t be wrong to say that Kuroo Tetsurou—Kei had unwillingly learnt their given name a few days ago—has become an increasing presence in Kei’s life. It’s just _weird_ to say.

Kuroo is always sort of there, which isn’t saying much, because they were obviously frequenting the skatepark before Kei had started showing up, but Kei isn’t exactly used to people… trying so _adamantly_ to befriend him. He has nothing against it, he’s not such an asshole that he refuses to allow people to simply talk to him, but he can’t figure out _why_. He doesn’t understand why Kuroo would be so dedicated to trying to talk to him, especially given how outwardly cold Kei is, his apparent _resting-bitch-face_ and all.

Kuroo doesn’t seem to mind that, or even care at all, like they’re not bothered by Kei’s short responses or his blunt jokes that might be read as insulting—in fact, Kuroo often plays along, snapping back with something equally as witty or smirking in a way that makes Kei’s stomach twist. Sometimes they smile at him, genuine, when they’re cruising past and just happen to catch Kei’s eyes, and Kei doesn’t know what that means and he doesn’t want to even _think_ about unpacking it.

He’s not good at friendship, which is evident in his astounding collection of maybe… _four_ friends. He supposes he can bump the number to five, now, if Kuroo is so set on making the list.

(Kei doesn’t actually mind all that much.)

It’s been a week or so since Kuroo had rudely inserted themself into Kei’s life—which isn’t as long as they’ve been friends with Hinata, because that has been ongoing since the first day the three of them visited the park, apparently—and Kei is less abrasive around them now, just like how Kuroo has stopped asking him weirdly provoking questions and settles instead for making stupid little jokes and sharing titbits of random personal information about themself; Kei now knows that Kuroo is attempting to grow their hair out, their preferred nail polish colour is black, they once spent weeks trying to find out if there was such a thing as combat boots that are good for skateboarding, and they have a terrible stick-and-poke tattoo on their upper thigh that they did themself when they were seventeen.

None of these things, or the tens of other strange things that Kuroo has let slip in conversation, are of any relevance to Kei at all. He wonders what, _exactly_ , the trade-off is, when he tells Kuroo that he has an older brother, or that he studied at the University of Tokyo, and the trivia pieces he receives in return are things like Kuroo’s favourite flavour of ice-cream (chocolate) and the total number of times they’ve had to replace their lip-gloss in this week alone (four).

Their friend, the fellow skater with the unforgettable hair, is named Bokuto. Kei has familiarised himself with this only because where ever Kuroo goes, Bokuto follows, and when Kuroo lingers to talk to Kei in the middle of a skating session, Bokuto is impatiently waiting a few feet behind them and trying to drag them back to the halfpipe. He’s not bad; he’s _shockingly_ similar to Hinata, in too many ways to count, and Kei is fully accepting of the fact that the two of them seem to get along swimmingly, all loud obnoxiousness and silly noises and an enthusiasm for skating that just can’t be matched. Kei likes him as much as he can without really knowing him all too well. He certainly doesn’t _dislike_ him.

The park is a little emptier today than it usually is, hot weather deterring most people from partaking in an activity that makes you sweat, but Kuroo and Bokuto apparently don’t fit under the category of _“most people”_. Hinata and Kageyama certainly don’t—Kei isn’t sure there’s much that could _ever_ deter them from skating, not after watching Hinata accidentally destroy a board after practicing during a thunderstorm, or the time Kageyama’s board snapped in half and he immediately dragged Kei out with him to go buy a new one.

Kei sits in his usual spot on the ground, baseball cap shielding his eyes from the sun, and he watches with vague interest at where Bokuto and Kageyama seem to be competitively practicing tricks on the halfpipe. Hinata isn’t too far away, skating back and forth as he perfects his grinds against a small rail.

A person-shaped shadow casts itself over Kei’s outstretched legs, and he rolls his eyes before glancing up casually; the hand-cut, frayed at the knee, black denim shorts are already a succinct answer to who might be bothering him—not like Kei had assumed it would be anyone else, really.

“Hey,” Kuroo starts, holding a hand above their eyes and grinning down at Kei, “come sit on the halfpipe with me.”

Kei blinks. He fidgets with the headphones nestled around his neck.

“I’d rather not,” he says flatly.

 _“Aww_ ,” in the newfound shade, Kei can see the overly dramatic pout on Kuroo’s face, “so you don’t want to talk to me?”

“Not really.”

Kuroo’s eyes narrow, analysing ( _dangerous_ , Kei thinks) and a long stretch of silence settles between them both as they do nothing but stare at each other. Kei watches Kuroo slowly offer a hand forward, palm side up, and he looks at it for a second before glancing back up at Kuroo’s face; the little twitch at the corner of their mouth is telling—Kei’s already lost. Kuroo knows that.

The smug grin they give when Kei reaches up and takes their hand is only there for a moment, shifting into something softer as they help pull Kei up off the floor, and Kei quickly takes his hand away when he’s fully standing. He brushes at his thighs, fidgety, and grabs his backpack off the ground to keep his fingers busy. Kuroo, if they notice anything at all, says nothing on their short walk towards the halfpipe.

They clamber up onto the deck easily, the halfpipe being short enough that they can climb it without having to skate up the ramp first, and when they’re settled and sitting comfortably, they hold their hand back out again towards Kei, expectant. Kei doesn’t bother to hesitate this time, simply wrapping his fingers around Kuroo’s palm and allowing himself to be pulled up, feet sliding against the vert as Kuroo helps to drag him up to the deck.

He rests his hands back in his lap when he’s sitting properly.

Below them, Bokuto and Kageyama continue to skate, undisturbed or unbothered by the presence of Kei and Kuroo resting atop the deck, and Kei idly swings his legs and kicks his feet against the vert as he glances around; they’re not too high up but it’s still a relatively nice view, or it’s something _different_ at least, a look over the entire park and not just the ground level like Kei is used to seeing. Over to his right, Hinata has paused his grind practice and seems to be talking to some unknown skaters that Kei vaguely recognises as other regulars here, because _of course_ he feels the need to make more friends.

On his left, Kei has Kuroo. They’re watching the skating, a lazy grin settled on their face and their legs swinging in a manner similar to Kei’s, hands resting on their thighs and the glitter of their black nail polish shimmering faintly in the sunlight. With the proximity—Kuroo’s knee bumping up against Kei’s with every kick of their feet—Kei can recognise the thickness of their eyelashes as being coated with mascara, eyelids dark with eyeliner that’s smudged from the warmth and the sweat of skateboarding all day. When brown eyes shift to the side, gaze locking with his, Kei quickly looks away.

He stares at his fingers, awkward, and a few seconds of casual silence pass between them before Kuroo eventually speaks.

“You know,” they start, “you remind me of my best friend, Kenma. You’re really alike.”

Kei looks back at Kuroo, eyebrows furrowed slightly.

“Thank you,” he rolls his eyes and ignores Kuroo’s amused grin, “for the comparison to someone that I don’t even know.”

“Well, he doesn’t skate either,” Kuroo’s eyes turn sharp, _calculating_ , “the difference is that he doesn’t like it, so he stays at home. You seem to come all the way here and sit in the sun for hours while _pretending_ to hate it.”

Kei pauses at that. Kuroo peers at him with that same goading look he’s seen on their face plenty of times before, not taunting but _teasing_ , mouth slightly askew with a small smirk like they’re aware of something that Kei isn’t. It’s a strange little game, this provocation, but Kei is yet to back down or crack under the pressure. He tilts his chin up with a smug smile.

“You’re being awfully presumptuous, Kuroo. How do you know I don’t _actually_ hate it?”

Kuroo doesn’t falter. They shrug casually and then dismissively wave a hand, the bracelets around their wrist jingling quietly with the motion.

“Like I said, you remind me of my best friend,” the skating continues on below them, wheels rumbling along wood and providing a gentle background noise as Kuroo talks, “you strike me as the type who simply won’t do something if he doesn’t want to.”

They’re right. Kei doesn’t know how they’re right. He doesn’t want to think about it.

(He doesn’t exactly know who to blame: Kuroo, for noticing, for somehow recognising the signs and picking out the little things and coming up with a presumption about Kei that just so happens to be perfect; or _himself_ , for letting it happen, for accidentally lowering his walls and letting his guard slip and not even realising that he was doing it, unsure of how Kuroo wormed their way in past his prickly exterior but now having to live with the knowledge that they _have_ and there’s nothing he can do about it.)

“You sound pretty sure of that,” Kei says.

It’s a complete non answer. Kei knows that, and Kuroo recognises it too, but Kei’s lack of response is because Kuroo already knows they’re right or else they wouldn’t have even said it—still, they loosely tuck some stray curls behind their pierced ear and let out a quiet huff of laughter.

“If you wanted to go home, I think you’d just go home.” Their smile softens, shifting into something genuine and gentle, and Kei looks away. Hinata suddenly seems fascinating to watch, right about now. Kuroo’s voice continues from Kei’s side. “If you didn’t want to talk to me, then you wouldn’t.”

Kei hopes his cheeks aren’t red. He twists his fingers together, picking at his cuticles distractedly, and doesn’t look over when he speaks.

“I’m regretting ever befriending you.”

Kuroo laughs loudly, boyish and charming, the same ugly laugh as always but oddly endearing to Kei. He can practically _hear_ the grin in Kuroo’s voice when they respond.

“I’m glad you admitted that you consider us friends,” they say, “because I was about to point out how you only _pretend_ to hate me, like how you pretend to hate skating.”

“I definitely hate your ego,” Kei replies, not a single hint of malice in his voice, and Kuroo only chuckles again.

Kei thinks he could get used to that sound.

Kuroo hums quietly then, mumbling a casual _“sure_ ” under their breath, partly to themself, and Kei rolls his eyes before letting the conversation drift into a comfortable silence.

If Kuroo slowly ends up shuffling a little closer to his side, thigh pressing against his, Kei decides not to move away for once.

* * *

Kei hates a lot of things in life.

He hates when the price of his favourite ice-cream is higher than usual, or when they’re all out of strawberry mochi at the local ramen joint they frequent (Kei’s top choice because it has the _best_ peach tea). He hates when Kageyama leaves four voicemails on his phone and all four are nothing but silence because he _still_ doesn’t understand how his phone works, or when Tadashi shows up unannounced and then critiques Kei’s apartment for maybe having one single book out of place.

He hates that he’s still thinking about Kuroo Tetsurou and how they were right; Kei doesn’t hate them at all.

He should. He _really_ should, given that they’re everything Kei usually hates in a person—loud and outgoing, overly talkative, always standing too close and always pushing for Kei to actually talk to them, calculating as they say just the right thing that they know is going to earn them a response—but Kei doesn’t hate it at all. There’s something different about it with Kuroo, just like the way it’s different when it’s Hinata, because Kei _likes_ Hinata.

Kei likes Kuroo.

He likes how Kuroo, despite everything, is similar to him in so many ways but so different too, and Kei wants to tear apart the similarities and piece together the differences until he finally completes the puzzle.

He likes that Kuroo is analytical, like he is, because he knows Kuroo has dissected Kei and figured out too much from so little, the same way Kei has done to them; Kei knows that Kuroo lights up at compliments and that their smug and cocky demeanour isn’t really anything but a _front_ , teasing smirks quickly shifting into genuine soft smiles when Kei happens to laugh at their stupid jokes or offer them a very vague and brief moment of flattery. Kei knows, from listening intently while pretending that he’s not, that Kuroo frequently gets insecure and that they’re not actually as confident as they try to appear.

It only made Kei like them more, in all honesty.

He likes that Kuroo knows when to _stop_ , pushing and toeing the line every time they say something that might be provoking a little too far, but never _crossing_ that boundary, always acutely aware of where Kei stands and being able to read into the nuance of his facial expressions to figure out when to pull back from teasing too hard. Similarly, they’re cautious with their touching, affectionate and close with their other friends but recognising the way Kei avoids that, carefully tugging at his forearm or briefly nudging their shoulders together instead of the enthusiastic hugs they give Bokuto and Hinata.

(When Kuroo hesitates before wrapping their fingers around Kei’s palm to help pull him up, or when they hurriedly search for a reaction to make sure it’s okay when their knee bumps against Kei’s, it makes Kei’s skin burn regardless.)

Kei knows, at this point, that he’s more than a little fucked.

He doesn’t think about it when he’s getting dressed for the day—neat button-up and slacks—and he doesn’t think about it while he’s at work, meandering through the basement archives and checking through the inventory to find the new exhibition piece that was donated last week. He doesn’t think about it when he’s back home, phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear as his mom asks him how he’s doing and if he’s eating properly and whether he’s socialising enough, humming through his responses as he unbuttons his shirt and pulls on a casual hoodie instead.

He doesn’t think about it on the train, happy to distract himself with indulging both Hinata and Kageyama in a stupid argument about horror movies, laughing at the way Kageyama doesn’t even know what Hinata is talking about, and he _definitely_ doesn’t think about it when he steps into the skatepark and notices Kuroo immediately skating towards him.

There’s a dorky grin on their face, something Kei is becoming all too accustomed to, and they slow their oncoming speed with a lazy powerslide, casual and relaxed—Kei notices the slip-up before they apparently do: they leant too far back.

Kei pinpoints the _exact_ moment that Kuroo realises they’ve made a mistake, eyes widening for a second before they mouth a silent _“shit_ ”, and it would almost be funny if they weren’t suddenly falling, board skidding out from underneath them with a horribly grating clatter against the concrete. It skims past Kei’s feet, crashing into the fence behind him, and a loud _thud_ follows a few seconds later when Kuroo lands flat on the ground.

Their arms are outstretched in front of them, flannel sleeves riding up their forearms and showing off their tattoos, dark red fingernails scratching against the floor as they ball their hands into fists; Kei glances around, noting the lack of people caring for this spectacle—most likely used to it—and then he crouches down next to Kuroo.

He’s a little concerned at their silence.

“Kuroo,” he says, hand hovering above their shoulder as he considers prodding him, “are you alright?”

He gets a muffled groan in response and considers it good enough. They’re still _alive_ , at least.

Kuroo starts to move, letting out a quiet huff of laughter as they push themself off the ground slowly, up onto their knees.

“I’ve had worse,” they wave a hand dismissively and finally look up, grinning at Kei, “though I’m doing better now that you’re here.”

Kei doesn’t respond or even process the comment. He’s too busy staring at the slow stream of blood that’s started to trickle out of Kuroo’s nose, and when Kei grimaces and points vaguely at their face, Kuroo only furrows their eyebrows.

“What—”

They pause as the blood drips over their top lip, seeping into their mouth, and they raise a hand cautiously to prod at their nostril. They nudge a little too hard apparently, wincing sharply, and it seems to be the only trigger needed for the blood to start pouring like a real nosebleed.

 _“Oh_ ,” they move to stand up properly, quickly but clumsily clambering off the floor, pinching their nostrils closed, “it’s fine—”

“You’re doing it wrong,” Kei says, standing up alongside them and batting Kuroo’s hand away, “tilt your head forward, _idiot_.”

Kuroo hesitates for a moment, becoming progressively messier as the collar of their white t-shirt turns red, and then they lean forward just enough for the blood to start splattering against the clean concrete below. A few drops hit the toe tip of their _Converse_ , and both of them stare silently at it for a second before Kei scoffs.

 _“And_ pinch your nostrils,” he drawls, vaguely amused when Kuroo responds with another small “ _oh_ ” and quickly holds their nose closed again.

Kei puts a hand on Kuroo’s back, pushing them along and muttering an obvious _“bathroom_ ” as they walk. The trail of tiny blood droplets that follow them is disgusting.

There’s a restroom nearby, thankfully, and Kei is also glad he hadn’t taken his backpack off or settled into the park yet, still carrying around the abundance of first aid materials that he frequently has to use on Kageyama and Hinata.

The bathroom is empty, several stalls but a latch on the main door, and Kei locks it while gently pushing Kuroo towards the sink countertop. They seem to get the idea, hopping up onto the counter and casually kicking their feet, and Kei pulls some cleaning supplies out of his bag before throwing it aside. He steps into the space between Kuroo’s knees, their head still tilted forward and fingers still keeping their nostrils shut, and Kei silently nudges their hand away as he quickly replaces it with his own, holding a slightly damp cloth to their nose.

Kuroo lets him.

After a few seconds, when Kei notices the cloth remaining white, he puts it on the side and instead picks up a handful of antiseptic wipes to start cleaning the blood—he stops then, moments from leaning forward to do it himself, realising that he’s still stood between Kuroo’s open legs, a perfect fit in what little space they have, and though Kuroo has said nothing at all about this predicament, Kei is _sure_ that their silence is telling. They’re bound to say something if Kei tries to wipe the goddamn blood off their jaw.

(It’s not like Kei had intended to even mean anything with his actions. He assists others with their injures all the time. Granted, he may not step into their personal space like this or be so cautious as to want to carefully clean their face for them, but he didn’t mean… to do whatever _this_ is.)

(The thought of it being a subconscious decision is somewhat _worse_.)

He hands the wipes to Kuroo and then steps back to rest against the door, as far away as he can be, zipping his bag shut and fidgeting with the straps in his hands.

“Thanks,” Kuroo says quietly, hopping off the countertop to turn to the mirror and beginning to wipe at their face. Their eyes catch Kei’s in the reflection, and they hold his gaze before they start talking again, a teasing smile tugging at their lips despite the mess of dried blood. “What’s with all the first aid supplies? Have you been holding out on me? Are you secretly a doctor?”

Kei laughs at that, nervous tension suddenly dissipating at Kuroo’s return to casualness, and he rests his hands in his pockets as he shakes his head.

“You were _so_ close,” he says sarcastically, grinning at Kuroo’s raised eyebrows, “I work in a museum.”

Kuroo’s responding smile would be cute, but the blood smeared along their teeth is a little unsettling, in all honesty.

 _“Ah_ ,” they nod, looking away from Kei as they carefully clean around their nose, wincing slightly when their fingers bump against the bridge, “that makes a lot of sense, actually. It suits you.”

Kei wills himself not to blush, for the love of _God_. He will _not_ be caught with pink cheeks in this tiny, dimly-lit public restroom, locked in with Kuroo Tetsurou and their blood-stained shirt and their stupid messy hair and their stupid vague compliments that might not even _be_ compliments. Kei doesn’t know if he’s ever right at reading into the things Kuroo says. Maybe there’s nothing to read into at all.

They turn around eventually, tossing the wipes in the trash, and if their t-shirt weren’t splotched with garish red patches, they’d look like their usual self. Kei is glad not to spot any bruising or discolouration around their face and chalks the nosebleed up to being superficial, rather than a broken nose or something equally as heinous. Kageyama broke his nose once and Kei didn’t hear the end it for _weeks_.

“You said you’ve had worse,” Kei says conversationally, for no real reason other than being intrigued, “how much worse?”

Kuroo hums to themself and settles back against the countertop, crossing one ankle over the other and then shrugging casually.

“My fingers tend to get it pretty bad, most of the time,” they hold a hand up and wiggle their fingers obnoxiously, grinning a little, “I have this awful habit of putting my hands down to stop my falls. Bo keeps trying to teach me how to roll but I guess I just default back to instinct.”

“You didn’t today,” Kei points out, remembering Kuroo’s hands held out in front of them as they laid sprawled on the floor.

Kuroo laughs lightly. They push away from the counter, stepping closer towards the exit—subsequently closer to Kei—and Kei leans back to unlock the door as they approach.

“Well, I didn’t roll either, and look what I ended up with.”

They scrunch their nose up, a ridiculously endearing gesture, and then they let out a quiet hiss of pain before gently pressing a hand to cover their face. Kei snorts and leans forward.

“Maybe you should stop showing off,” he lightly pokes their nose, taunting, “or just get better, I suppose.”

In the newfound proximity, a mere few inches of space between them, Kei is sure he can see the sudden spark of something akin to _interest_ flashing in Kuroo’s eyes. They say nothing, not yet moving away, but their eyes are bright and the corner of their mouth twitches with a threat of an oncoming smirk; Kei holds his breath.

“Do you not think I’m good?” Their voice is quiet in the thick air between them, tone sarcastic but evidently amused, “you wound me, _Tsukki_ , seriously.”

Kei, naturally and without a second of hesitation, rolls his eyes at the nickname. He doesn’t comment on it, but Kuroo’s sly grin is confirmation that they _know_ Kei caught it. Instead, he musters up the confidence to respond as casually as he can, ignoring the pounding of his heart against his ribcage and the sweatiness of his clammy palms.

“I _think_ that you should probably be more careful.”

It goes quiet between them now as Kuroo narrows their eyes for just a split second, gone in an instant as they grin and then nod.

“Of course,” they straighten up—Kei hadn’t even noticed they had leaned forward so much—and whatever strange tension was collecting before suddenly fades away, back to something normal as Kuroo gives an obnoxious thumbs-up, “I’ll be sure to follow your advice, doc.”

Kei bites back a grin and tries for a scowl instead. He’s not sure if he hits the mark, but his pulse is still racing and he feels like he needs to leave, so he throws a mumble of “ _idiot_ ” towards Kuroo and then quickly steps out of the restroom. He hopes it’s not blatantly obvious that he’s flustered.

(Kei _likes_ Kuroo Tetsurou.)

The fresh air immediately cools the burning he feels along his cheeks and the tips of his ears, face flushed and skin hot, and he lets out a relieved sigh before he starts to head back towards the skatepark.

For his own sake, he ignores the footsteps following behind him and keeps his eyes fixed forward.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No one needs to have a grand ambition, or some kind of _reason_ for simply living life the way they want,” they grin then, like they’re not in the middle of imparting some kind of life-changing wisdom on Kei, “did I tell you that I work in a bar?”
> 
> “Surprisingly, Kuroo, you’ve told me about the scar on your right ankle from when a cat scratched you when you were eight, but not where you work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay! here we are! thank you all so much for sticking with me through this ridiculously specific au, it was a lot of fun to write and i hope it's fun to read too!! much love to everyone and i hope you're all having a nice day/evening/night <3

Time begins to pass almost frighteningly fast, the days quickly turning to weeks as Kei continues to live his life how he usually does—wake up, work, come home, skatepark, _blah blah_. Frankly, at this point, he’d be _annoyed_ if his routine were to suddenly change.

He still has his ups and downs, plenty of bad days scattered amongst the good ones, but like always, it’s nothing he can’t handle by himself; his friends are understanding when he vaguely tells them he’s not going out, and they don’t press the issue, knowing to leave him alone for the day so he can recuperate his energy. They’ll still text him frequently though, their own little ways of checking in, and Hinata will usually drop by with some food before he heads back to his own place. Sometimes—very rarely, but _sometimes_ —Kageyama will visit and Kei will let him in, only because he’s content to sit in silence and not bother Kei with needless questions or rambling to try and cheer him up.

Today is only the _beginning_ of a bad day, shitty feelings stirring in his chest and invoking an unexplainable anxiety in him since he first got out of bed this morning, and it’s _exactly_ what he wanted on his day off from work. He had turned Hinata and Kageyama away at his door, a quiet but certain mumble of _“staying inside today”_ (though he’s sure they realised this when they took in his pyjama shirt and sweatpants), and he’s been curled up on his sofa for the past hour or two, barely paying attention to whatever happens to be playing on the TV.

It’s hard to pinpoint why he feels bad sometimes. He just does. He can’t help it, and he can’t put it into words. He doesn’t exactly feel sad, not at first—it starts as a shift of something feeling slightly off, a minor tick in his mood that he knows is just a quickly unravelling thread, because then it becomes progressively worse as things start to annoy him for no reason, his mild frustration with dropping a spoon turning into an eventual anger with himself for being so _stupid_.

He once caught the bottom of his t-shirt on a door handle and nearly cried. It was a weird day.

There’s a general melancholy to his mood today, anxiety bubbling under his skin and a pensive sadness eating away at him for reasons he can’t even begin to explain. He figures he’ll get over it soon enough, like he usually does, with enough sugary snacks and hours spent by himself, wrapped up in his softest blanket and trying his best to ignore his increasingly negative thoughts. If all else fails, he’ll just take a nap, because he’s a very mature adult with very mature solutions to his problems.

A sudden loud noise from his left stirs Kei out of his thoughts, jumping slightly, and it takes him a second to register it as his phone ringing. He sighs to himself as he reaches over to pick it up; unsurprisingly, the caller ID is listed as _Hinata_. He really should know better than to call Kei during his shitty day, but the insistence means it could possibly be an emergency—to which Kei would _still_ be annoyed, considering Hinata would have called _him_ and not someone of more importance.

Regardless, he decides to answer.

“This better be important,” he says tiredly, stretching his legs out on the couch, “has someone died?”

There’s a quiet laugh on the other end of the line and Kei is moderately disappointed in himself for just how fast he recognises it.

“Not yet,” Kei can hear the grin in Kuroo’s voice, “though I’ll probably be next, given that I don’t really have anything important to tell you, either.”

Kei hates the way his heart twists in his chest, pulse stuttering at the simple fact that it’s _Kuroo_. He _refuses_ to let himself be this easily swayed by the mere voice of another person.

“Truly disappointing,” he jokes, rolling his eyes at nothing in particular, “what’s so _unimportant_ that you had to steal Hinata’s phone?”

There’s a pause for a second, neither of them saying anything, and Kei worries that maybe he said something somewhere that was rude or stupid, because he does that sometimes and he doesn’t even _mean_ to—

“I’m just checking in, is all,” Kuroo says carefully, slowly, like they’re picking their words purposely, like they know _exactly_ what’s going on with Kei today, “I know it’s not any of my business, so feel free to hang up—”

“It’s fine,” Kei interrupts, far too quick and disgustingly panicked, as if he couldn’t be any more blatant about his _feelings_ towards Kuroo, “I don’t mind.”

He doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore. He feels like he’s sixteen and crushing on Kageyama all over again, words fumbled and emotions all over the place as he struggles to behave like a regular human being. He’s already awkward, but his social ineptitude apparently goes through the roof when it comes to liking somebody; Kei can’t even _joke_ about the ridiculously long time it took for him and Kageyama to finally get together, if only because both of them were _horrendous_ at picking up signals.

Kei is older now, wiser, and while he likes to think that he’s improved his skills of reading people, he knows it only really makes it worse for him. He could tally up a list of things that he _thinks_ might indicate Kuroo being into him—not like he’s been keeping track, or anything—but every soft smile and every brush of hands makes his skin feel like it’s on fire. Knowing that it might _actually_ mean something—Kei is sure he’d spontaneously combust at the thought. He doesn’t dare consider it.

(He doesn’t even know if Kuroo likes guys. He’s not going to unfairly assume something like that.)

“You don’t mind,” Kuroo repeats quietly, chuckling to themself, “I suppose I’ll take it.”

They’re silent for a moment, and Kei thinks he can hear the soft sound of them humming to themself before they speak again.

“Are you busy?” They ask, voice wavering like they’re somewhat unsure of themself, and Kei furrows his eyebrows as he stares blankly at his TV.

“Obviously not,” he shuffles around in his blankets, “why?”

Another pause.

“Would you mind company?”

Kei ignores the traitorous pounding of his heart against his ribcage and the way his bad mood seems to be _immediately_ pushed to the back of his mind.

He knows that Kuroo is aware he’s having a bad day. They had either asked someone about Kei’s lack of presence at the skatepark, or Hinata just outright told them without needing to be prompted, which seems likely, given the way Hinata _also_ apparently handed his phone over to Kuroo without hesitance. Kei is positive that Hinata has a sixth sense for romantic feelings and is now hellbent on making Kei’s life an even bigger nightmare than it already is. Regardless, Kuroo knows that he’s at home, by himself, feeling shitty, and for some reason or other, they want to come over. They _want_ to see him. They asked him if he would mind.

Kei doesn’t think he would _ever_ mind Kuroo Tetsurou’s presence.

(And what a dangerous, _dangerous_ thought that is.)

“As long as you don’t try to skate inside my apartment,” he says eventually, trying for casual, pretending that his pulse isn’t racing.

“A hard bargain,” Kuroo replies back quickly, amusement evident in their tone, “but I think I can manage.”

There’s an obnoxiously rhythmic knock at Kei’s door a little while later, after he’d reluctantly put his phone down and decided to change into a nicer t-shirt than his previous dinosaur-patterned one, and he wipes his vaguely sweaty palms on his thighs before opening the door.

Kuroo stands on the other side, smile wide, and they hold up a plastic carrier bag in lieu of a greeting. Kei also happens to notice that they’re wearing a skirt, red and black plaid, and it’s cute if not a _little_ impractical for skateboarding. He supposes that’s why there’s a huge ladder down the side of their black tights, patterned band-aids stuck to their skin beneath the tears.

“I come bearing gifts,” they wave their free hand in a gesture towards the bag, in which Kei can see an abundance of snacks amongst the contents. He bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from grinning.

He cannot _believe_ how much better he feels already. He’s convincing himself it’s because of the promise of sugar.

“I’m pretty sure I agreed to you coming over,” he shuffles aside and motions for Kuroo to come in, “you didn’t need to bribe me with food.”

They laugh lightly as they step into the _genkan_ , toeing their sneakers off and arranging them neatly. They put their backpack down by the door, too, with their skateboard leaning carefully against the wall.

“Maybe I lied about the gifts,” they look up, “maybe they’re actually all for me.”

Kei simply rolls his eyes, an overly fond gesture, and turns around to silently head back into his lounge. Padded footsteps follow behind him like he had expected, and when Kei pushes his blanket aside and settles into one side of his couch, he’s amused to find Kuroo immediately flopping down onto the other side like this is their apartment. He assumes, with everything he already knows about Kuroo, that treating a friend’s home like their own is just par for the course, really. It’s not exactly _surprising_.

They tuck their legs up onto the cushions to sit cross-legged, apparently forgetting about their skirt for a moment, and after a few seconds of trying to tug at the bottom of it to cover their thighs, they huff, settling instead for crossing one leg over the other and then opening up the plastic bag that they’ve flung down between themself and Kei.

The TV continues to drone on in the background, the faint noise of a documentary filling the room as Kei listens intently to Kuroo rambling about snacks and how they had apparently asked Hinata what Kei’s favourites were, to which he and Kageyama started reeling off _“an impossibly long list”_ , and Kei holds back an amused laugh because _yeah_ , that sounds about right.

“So, I just got a mixture of like, everything I could remember,” they shrug casually, and then they grin as they look over at Kei, “I _knew_ you had a sweet tooth.”

Kei picks out a _KitKat_ from the bag and starts unwrapping it.

“You thought I was a doctor only a few days ago,” he chuckles, glancing up, “I’d say you’re breaking even on making assumptions about me.”

He doesn’t look over at the tell-tale noise of the couch creaking with movement, unnecessary when he can practically _feel_ Kuroo shuffling closer, their arm flung over the backboard—dangerously close to being around Kei’s shoulders—as they kick their feet to the floor and switch their crossed legs.

 _“Ah_ , well,” they huff out a little laugh, “I doubt that you’re any better! You’ve probably made some _horrible_ assumptions about me.”

Kei quickly takes a bite of his chocolate, lips twitching with the vague threat of a smile breaking through, and Kuroo gives him an amused look like they _know_ he’s trying not to laugh. He waves a hand vaguely and tries to ignore the small gap between him and Kuroo on the couch.

“I would _never_ ,” he says slyly, a hint of sarcasm dripping through, and Kuroo immediately grins, cheeks shining with some loose glitter fallout from their sparkly eyeshadow.

“Now I _know_ you’re lying,” they laugh, casually reaching down to grab some candy out of the bag, and Kei recognises their choice as something sour, “otherwise I’ll be disappointed that maybe you just think I’m boring.”

Kei smiles to himself and turns to look at the TV.

“You’re certainly not _boring_.”

He doesn’t look for Kuroo’s reaction.

They lull into a comfortable silence then, no noise between them besides the frequent rustling of their bag of snacks and the subsequent sound of opening new chocolate bars and pieces of candy, and Kei wraps himself up in his blanket and settles comfortably into the couch as he flicks through the TV and finds a shitty movie for them both to watch.

Kuroo mumbles bad jokes the entire time, mouth full of sweets and hands waving animatedly as they talk, and Kei continues to hold back his laughter because they’re _bad_ jokes and he refuses to give Kuroo the satisfaction of knowing that they’ve made him laugh when he’s _supposed_ to be having a shitty day—he hasn’t felt even an _inkling_ of sadness since hearing Kuroo’s voice on the phone earlier, and he’s only been feeling better with each piece of chocolate he eats and each brush of Kuroo’s knee against his thigh as they gradually make their way closer to him on the couch.

It’s sickeningly domestic, in a weird way, and Kei can’t dwell on it or he _knows_ his cheeks will start burning. His apartment is far too bright to try and hide his flushed face if he gets embarrassed about something so stupid as someone simply sitting next to him. He’s constantly lounging around with Tadashi, sprawling himself atop his body if he’s lying down, and it’s hard to separate himself from Yachi’s hugs whenever the two of them happen to meet up. He’s had Hinata sprawled across his lap before, head on Kei’s thighs and Kei’s fingers carding through his hair.

All of that is nothing compared to this. Kei _hates_ this.

(In which _“this”_ is Kuroo’s elbow bumping into his as they quietly whine and attempt to steal some of the blanket, tugging it from where it’s bunched up at Kei’s side and draping it over their own legs, seemingly unbothered by the prospect of now _sharing_ it with Kei.)

The light from the TV illuminates Kuroo’s face with gentle washes of bright colours, mesmerizing, their features pretty and delicate where they glow in the neon; Kuroo is _interesting_ to Kei, a handful of mismatched traits that are simply _begging_ for attention, the dark lines of their pencil eyeliner smudged slightly with the sweat of skating, a pale and mysterious bruise blossoming out from underneath the gauze taped against their left eyebrow, tidy black nail polish peeking out from the tight wrap of bandages around their fingers.

They’re messy, boyishly charming in their sarcastic and somewhat cocky demeanour, all kinds of rough around the edges with their scraped knees and bloody palms and bruised face, but their hair curls softly below their ears and their eyes glow bright in the light of the television, their cheeks are dimpled from frequent laughter and the corners of their eyes are creased like someone who had only ever learnt to smile wide and fully. It’s a mixture of hard, soft, hard, soft; the sharp edge of a canine when they smirk, the shine of their sticky pink lip-gloss, the worn-out tears in the knees of their jeans, the sleeves of their oversized hoodie hanging loosely just past their fingertips.

Kuroo’s brown eyes suddenly lock with his. Kei blinks, sitting upright and immediately pretending that he wasn’t just obnoxiously staring at someone that he might have _more_ than a little crush on.

“You alright?” Kuroo asks, genuine, and Kei offers a casual nod in response.

He watches Kuroo nod back and then raise a hand to cautiously scratch at the bandage on their eyebrow—which Kei assumes, like all of Kuroo’s injuries, was acquired from skateboarding. Kei wonders if Kuroo has a life _other_ than skating. He wouldn’t be surprised if the answer were _no_ , because he knows for a fact that Hinata and Kageyama don’t really have _any_ passions besides skating, and Kuroo skates with an ease that looks like they’ve been doing it for years.

“Hey,” he starts, hoping to clear some of the tension that he knows only _he_ is suffering from, “are you thinking of going pro?”

Kuroo’s eyes widen for a second, a brief flash of shock ghosting across their face before they settle back into a lazy grin, tucking one of their legs up underneath their shared blanket and turning to face Kei properly.

“A few days ago, _Doctor Tsukki_ thought I sucked at skating,” their smile turns smug, teasing, “were you lying to me?”

“Doctor Tsukki _actually_ said that you should be more careful,” Kei rolls his eyes, refusing to give in to the blatant fishing for compliments, “I’m just wondering if you have bigger plans.”

Kuroo hums for a moment, thinking, and then shrugs.

“Nope,” they relax into the couch, leaning into it with their side, “this is just a hobby for me.”

Kei responds with a casual _“okay”_ and Kuroo quickly starts up again.

“What about you?”

Kei blinks dumbly.

“What _about_ me?”

“You work in a museum, you like white chocolate, your favourite colour is baby pink, you _don’t_ skate,” Kuroo tilts their head with an amused little look, “do _you_ have any bigger plans?”

 _Well_. That’s a frustratingly loaded question.

He ignores the way Kuroo so easily reeled off some of the things that they know about him, as if they had a list of _thousands_ of more pieces of trivia ready to throw into conversation, and he tries not to dwell on the question for too long. Not today.

“I don’t know,” he lies, “I’ve never really thought about it.”

(He thinks about it _all the time_.)

Kuroo is silent as they peer at him with that stupidly calculating gaze, eyes sharp as they seem to look _through_ Kei, past his harsh exterior, breaking through his walls until they’re settled in his head. Kei doesn’t know how they manage it; he doesn’t know why they would possibly _want_ to.

“Ah, I mean,” their expression softens, a dimple appearing in their right cheek as their mouth twitches into a reserved smile, unfairly beautiful, and it makes Kei’s heart pound almost _painfully_ , “that’s okay, too. I don’t think life _needs_ a purpose.”

Kei’s eyes widen at that. Kuroo just continues on, waving a hand and sinking further into the couch, relaxed, their eyes closing as they let out a short sigh.

“No one needs to have a grand ambition, or some kind of _reason_ for simply living life the way they want,” they grin then, like they’re not in the middle of imparting some kind of life-changing wisdom on Kei, “did I tell you that I work in a bar?”

“Surprisingly, Kuroo, you’ve told me about the scar on your right ankle from when a cat scratched you when you were eight, but not where you work.”

They bark out a loud laugh at that, ugly and stupid and _oh so_ endearing, not to mention disgustingly contagious, and Kei uses all of his restraint to hold back an embarrassingly smitten smile.

“A poor testament to our friendship,” they chuckle lightly, “I don’t even have your phone number.”

Kei tries—and _fails_ —to ignore the sudden spike of his pulse, a dull warmth settling under his cheeks. He _really_ hopes he’s not blushing. It’s a completely inconspicuous statement, a simple request that they even prefaced with the word _“friendship”_ , so Kei has no reason to be awkwardly fumbling for his mobile and he _certainly_ has no reason for the hitch of breath in his throat when his fingers overlap Kuroo’s as they casually swap phones.

Kuroo hands Kei’s phone back with a dramatic and obnoxious wink. Kei’s heart stutters and he unceremoniously shoves Kuroo’s own phone back into their palm, hasty and maybe a little obvious, but his information sits fresh in the middle of their contacts list.

“Don’t just call me whenever you feel like it,” Kei warns, completely serious, and Kuroo holds their hands up defensively.

“I won’t,” their grin turns smug, “I’ll text instead.”

“You’re insufferable,” Kei says, not meaning it at all.

Kuroo smiles softly like they’re still inside Kei’s head, like they know _exactly_ what he means.

They make their leave not long after exchanging numbers, insisting on leaving all the remaining snacks with Kei— _“they’re yours! I bought them for you, stop arguing with me”_ —and laughing to themself as they sit on the floor of the _genkan_ , carefully pulling their sneakers on and lacing them up. They grab their backpack when they stand up, slipping it on and adjusting the tuck of their shirt into their skirt waistband, and then they easily grab their skateboard and swing it under their arm, grip side out so as not to snag on their clothes. Kei has seen Hinata rip _countless_ holes in his shirts by carelessly carrying his board with the grip tape against his body.

“Am I gonna see you tomorrow?” Kuroo asks when they’re standing in the outside hallway, rocking back and forth on the balls of their feet as Kei leans against the side of the doorframe, arms folded across his chest lazily.

“Maybe,” he says. It means _“yes”_.

Kuroo’s eyes light up in understanding.

“Good,” they nod, stepping backwards, “I’ll see you, then.”

Kei offers a wave as Kuroo walks down the hall, a quiet _“see you”_ leaving his lips as Kuroo waves back before turning and disappearing around the corner.

* * *

(He sticks to his word, because how could he _not_ , and the grin on Kuroo’s face when they spot him at the skatepark the next day is so sickeningly sincere that it makes Kei’s stomach hurt.)

* * *

It’s raining, today.

Kei’s apartment is dim and cosy, the lights turned low and the TV offering a comforting background noise when combined with the rhythmic tapping of raindrops hitting the windows, and Kei is content to spend the entire day curled up on his sofa, half asleep and vaguely listening to Kageyama reel off a takeout order down the phone.

He had come over earlier, letting himself in and immediately heading into the bathroom to towel at his wet hair, mumbling about how Hinata is at work and he’s bored, and if it weren’t for the fact that he just bought a _brand new_ board last week then he’d totally go skate in the rain regardless. Kei had laughed lightly, already fully aware of _just_ how dedicated Kageyama can be sometimes, and tossed him the TV remote before settling into the corner of his couch.

Kei’s phone buzzes with a text and he swipes it open, smiling slightly at the stupid photo that Kuroo has sent—a selfie, because _of course_ it is, their messy hair even worse than usual with how it’s rain-soaked and sticking to their forehead, smudged mascara rings dark around their eyes—and he starts tapping out a casual response. He feels Kageyama lean over his side, weight heavy but something that Kei is used to, and he ignores the prying eyes as he keeps typing.

When he puts his phone down, he glances to the side, Kageyama resting his chin atop Kei’s shoulder and pulling a face that Kei has seen hundreds of times before; it’s partly confusion, his eyebrows drawn together and mouth resting in a small pout, but Kei recognises it as Kageyama’s _thinking_ expression.

“What’re you pulling that face at, Your Majesty?”

Kageyama blinks, snapping out of his brief phase of concentration, and sits back.

“I’m not pulling a face.”

“I know you,” Kei reminds him, watching as Kageyama softens slightly, “spit it out, already.”

A second passes before Kageyama shrugs, slipping his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and then kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. Kei’s friends are becoming _far_ too acquainted with treating his apartment like their own.

“Kuroo,” he nods vaguely towards Kei’s phone, “I think they like you.”

Kei’s face warms, embarrassed, and Kageyama apparently decides to keep going, because a lack of tact and a poor grasp on social etiquette has _always_ been something they’ve had in common.

“And I think _you_ like them, too.”

“I don’t,” Kei says quickly, immediately defensive, if only so he doesn’t have to be vulnerable around Kageyama Tobio. He’s had enough of that in his life, _thanks_.

Kageyama hums, unbothered and well-adjusted to Kei’s rudeness.

“I know you,” he repeats Kei’s own words back to him, _bastard_ , and then his eyes dart to where Kei’s phone lights up with a new text notification.

As if he’s just a natural part of this now, Kageyama nosily shuffles forward to lean over Kei’s shoulder again, and Kei reluctantly tilts the phone his way so he can see the screen too. He might as well be involving himself in Kei’s not-quite-a-relationship, because everything else about _“befriending a stranger at the skatepark and developing a disgusting crush on them over a few short months”_ is already ridiculous enough; adding your ex-boyfriend-turned-useless-wingman into the mix is _hardly_ going to change things.

> **Kuroo** (5:34 pm)  
> so the rain totally ruined my day
> 
> **Kuroo** (5:34 pm)  
> i miss skating :(

Kei rolls his eyes, amused, and another text pops up.

> **Kuroo** (5:35 pm)  
> i also miss the sarcasm from my favourite not-skater <3

He quickly throws his phone down onto the couch, face fucking _burning_ , and stares pointedly at the wall as he ignores the incoming notification sounds.

“I told you so,” Kageyama offers.

“Shut _up_.”

* * *

Kuroo texting Kei has become a regular thing now, and whenever they’re not spending time together in person, Kei is sure that he’ll end up with tens of messages that talk about anything and everything, ranging from menial everyday small talk to things that are so profoundly _Kuroo_ that Kei can only laugh in response; sometimes it’ll be a photo of the meal they’re having for dinner, or a casual remark here and there about their shift at work the previous night, and then sometimes it’ll be an oddly lengthy review of a new snack they tried, or a step-by-step recounting of their seemingly chaotic journey to buy new wheels for their board.

Kuroo uses a lot of hearts, when they text. Kei isn’t sure what that means.

(Kuroo also occasionally texts like they’re _flirting_. Kei ignores it for fear of misreading it. He definitely does _not_ flirt back, despite what Kageyama might say when he sneaks glances at Kei’s phone and then relays the _“gossip”_ back to Hinata, who then pulls out his phone and calls Tadashi right in front of Kei’s face.)

It’s also become a regular thing for everyone to meet up and go skating when it starts to get dark in the evening— _"everyone”_ includes the actual skaters and then _Kei_ , because he’s so used to the stupid behaviour of this friend group that he supposes he might as well just tag along on their nightly rides down the empty streets, content to trail behind with his hands in the pockets of his oversized hoodie and his headphones hanging loosely around his neck. He doesn’t really mind following along, always happy to enjoy the gentle silence of the sleeping city, glancing up at the stars every so often and finding a calming comfort in the cool breeze around him.

Plus, it’s mildly entertaining to watch the ongoing unspoken competition between Hinata and Kageyama, with Hinata attempting tricks against a new surface he’s never skated before and fumbling as he loses his balance, while Kageyama will proceed to nail the same trick after only one or two attempts. Kei has to refrain from snickering every time.

Bokuto suddenly zigzags across the sidewalk in front of Kei, wheels rolling along the bricks in the paving with a loud and grating noise, and he gives a wide grin as he glances back over his shoulder.

“Tsukki!” He wobbles slightly, off-kilter, and then turns to circle back so he can cruise _alongside_ Kei instead of in front of him, “can I ask you for a favour?”

Kei immediately narrows his eyes, suspicious.

“You’re going to ask me regardless of my answer, so go ahead.”

 _“Duh,”_ Bokuto laughs, a sweet sound, “you know about skate videos, right? Will you film something for me? Usually I’ll ask Kuro, but…”

He trails off, waving a hand towards where Kuroo is obnoxiously racing Hinata down the empty street, crouched on their board to pick up speed as both of them fail to realise that they’re heading towards the drop of a fairly steep hill. Kei huffs out a little laugh, almost a snort, and shrugs.

“I guess,” he takes his phone out of his pocket, unplugging his headphones, “do you want me to follow you, or are you just going to trick on something?”

Bokuto eyes him curiously for a moment and Kei only stares back, confused.

“You know _way_ too much about this sorta stuff,” Bokuto says, tilting his head with his eyebrows raised, “are you _sure_ you don’t secretly skate?”

Kei rolls his eyes then, biting back a small smile at the same time.

“I’m positive,” he waves his phone distractedly, “let’s go, already.”

Bokuto nods, cheering excitedly to himself, and cruises away to get himself ready for whatever he’s planning.

Kei is content to film Bokuto doing… whatever it is he’s doing, because while Kei might know titbits of basic information about skating here and there, he can’t exactly claim to be _well-versed_ in knowledge. He knows the names of a handful of tricks and moves only because he’s accustomed to Hinata and Kageyama endlessly talking about them and bickering over who can do it better, so he inevitably _had_ to learn the difference between a kickflip and a heelflip, if only to chime in with his apparently _crucial_ opinion during an argument.

Whatever Bokuto’s doing isn’t unknown to Kei because he doesn’t know very much—it’s unknown because it’s _unique_. There’s obviously a name for the trick he’s performing, and it’ll come to Kei eventually, but Bokuto skates with such a personal style and flair that everything he does looks completely improvised and made up on the spot. It’s _interesting_ , to say the least.

He keeps his hands steady and manages to capture a perfect shot of the trick after only a few attempts, which is certainly the easiest footage Kei has ever had to film, considering he’s had to previously spend _hours_ recording Hinata attempt the same tricks on repeat; it had eventually been something of a cute project, when watching it back and looking at the visible progress that he’d made, but Kei could have done without the pain in his back from sitting awkwardly on the floor for the entire day of shooting.

A board scrapes to a stop beside him, quickly joined by the presence of someone looming over him, and Kei doesn’t bother looking up quite yet. He doesn’t need to.

“Wow,” Kuroo says, teasing evident in their voice, “look at _you_ , directing skate videos. Who’d have thought?”

“I know,” Kei responds sarcastically, “I can hold a camera. Shocking, right?”

Kuroo laughs lightly, a sound that feels drastically different in the quiet night, something private and sweet and shared only between the two of them. Kei clambers to his feet after Bokuto sends him a final thumbs-up, and starts to idly flick through the short recordings on his screen.

Bokuto excitedly bounds over to the two of them, board under one arm and slinging his other casually around Kuroo’s shoulder as he glances at Kei’s phone.

“You’re gonna send me that footage, right?”

“Of course,” Kei nods, “I’m not just going to keep it on my phone forever.”

Kuroo grins when Bokuto laughs, and Kei finds himself smiling slightly too.

He takes Bokuto’s phone number, mildly surprised that he doesn’t already have it yet— _"Bo is always jealous that you and I are texting besties, Tsukki,”_ Kuroo jokes, and Kei flips them off as Bokuto whines a quiet _“shut up, dude”_ —and then Bokuto wastes no time in skating away, giving Kei a wave before meeting back up with Hinata and Kageyama. Kuroo offers a dorky little salute and then kicks their board back down to follow.

Kei, for reasons he can’t quite explain, be it boredom or otherwise the convenience of having his phone already in his hands, decides to sit himself on the ground and point his camera at Kuroo as they skate, hands steady as he follows their casual cruise up and down the street.

The lighting looks good on them, the soft haze of the streetlights and the pretty glow of other miscellaneous signs, and not for the first time in his life, Kei thinks that Kuroo is _unfairly_ attractive. He’ll also admit that a tiny portion of his attraction might be connected to Kei having a small thing for skateboarding in general, just a _tiny_ thing—it’s not his fault that the confidence is appealing. Kuroo is _ridiculously_ confident in their skating abilities. It suits them.

He’s about to put his phone down, content to skim through the footage once or twice before deleting it, when Kuroo suddenly _turns_ , easy and carefree as they spin on their board to directly face towards Kei’s vicinity. Time almost feels like it’s slowing down, Kei is hyperaware of the way they throw up a peace sign and then _wink_ , not at the camera, but straight at _him_.

His face flushes immediately and he almost, _almost_ , drops his phone. _Stupid_. So fucking _stupid_. He’s sure the sudden shakiness of his fingers will be evident in the footage, so he quickly presses stop and pockets his mobile without even looking at it, trying to ease the weakness he feels in his knees by casually sitting himself down on the curb of the sidewalk.

He ignores the heat rising in his cheeks when he hears Kuroo’s laugh, faded but still distinct, blatantly aimed at Kei, like they can _see_ his red face and averted gaze from the other side of the street.

Kuroo eventually stops skating and decides to settle themself down on the sidewalk next to Kei, their legs outstretched in front of them as they rest their feet on their board and then lean back on their palms. Kei ignores the brush of their arms touching with the closeness at which Kuroo decided to sit next to him.

The two of them watch in a comfortable silence as Bokuto, Hinata, and Kageyama continue to enjoy their freedom to skate the streets uninterrupted, no fear of judging eyes or cops to tell them to stop. Hinata stares in _awe_ whenever Bokuto performs a particularly interesting trick, immediately clapping and trying to replicate it, much to Kageyama and Bokuto’s apparent insistence that he _really_ shouldn’t—he goes flying, like everybody had reasonably expected him to do, but he quickly gets off the floor with a giddy laugh and then runs to grab his board from where it rolled and crashed into the sidewalk, no doubt enthusiastic to try again.

Kei wonders how someone can be so used to failure that it doesn’t bother them anymore.

“You’ve got that face again,” Kuroo says casually, loud in the quiet night, making Kei jump a little.

“What face?”

“Like you’re overthinking,” they smile softly before turning back to look out at their friends.

Kei doesn’t say anything for a moment, staring at Kuroo’s profile, the natural upward quirk of their eyebrows, the shine in their eye illuminated by the moonlight, the straight line of their nose and the fullness of their lips—he glances away, looks at his fidgety hands, and offers a quiet _“whatever”_ under his breath.

He’s _always_ overthinking. How could he not be? There’s so much to think about at all times: his entire life, his potential future, his job, the friends he has in Tokyo, the family he left behind in Miyagi, his irresponsible and somewhat ridiculous crush on Kuroo Tetsurou that only gets worse by the minute. It’s too much, sometimes.

“I meant what I said,” Kuroo starts, quieter now, seemingly not done with the prior conversation despite Kei’s vague response, “about life not needing a purpose? I skate in the day and then I work a few nights at a bar. That’s it. I enjoy it.”

“Don’t you ever feel—” Kei rings his hands, nervous and hesitant to unload his feelings on Kuroo like this, only starting over when he spares a sideways glance and finds them raising an eyebrow in a gesture for him to continue, “isn’t it difficult sometimes? To know that other people our age are successful, and we’re just… doing nothing?”

Kuroo hums idly, pushing their board back and forth along the street before they shake their head confidently.

“Nope!” They pause then, pouting for a second, “ah, well, _sure_ , but the point is that you don’t owe anyone a success story. You’re allowed to just _exist_ , Tsukishima.”

Kei isn’t sure he’s ever heard his name said with such reverence before. It settles into his chest, twisting around his heart and tightening, _permanent_ , a feeling he knows he’ll never get rid of no matter how hard he tries. Kuroo casually tucks their long hair behind their ear and shrugs, shoulder bumping with Kei’s, welcoming and warm in the cool midnight air.

“You’re _not_ doing nothing. You’re living. There’s plenty of time in the future to do things, but it’s okay for right now if you just go to work and then hang out with some losers at a skatepark.”

They say nothing else, silence settling around them as their side stays pressed against Kei’s, and all Kei can think is—well, _nothing_ , he can’t think of anything, too preoccupied with the vague feeling of Kuroo’s hand next to his on the ground between them, surely accidental but still _there_ , and there’s a saccharine comfort to be found in the combination of their presence and their shockingly sincere words.

It takes him a minute or two before he turns to look at them, slow and curious.

“How do you always know the right things to say?” He asks quietly, “last week I saw you cry because you dropped some ice-cream, and now you’re giving me eerily specific life advice.”

Kuroo laughs loudly, noise reverberating through Kei with their proximity.

“I think you and I have more in common than you know.”

Kei scoffs at that, unfiltered and unable to stop himself, because he’s _positive_ that he and Kuroo couldn’t be further apart in terms of similarities. The ice-cream debacle was one thing—Kei would _never_ be clumsy enough to drop an entire litre tub onto the ground.

Kei likes peace and quiet, silent time to himself, and Kuroo likes skating around the streets of Tokyo with Bokuto at their side. That’s _one_ very blatant difference among hundreds. It could be an endless list, if Kei were really bothered to think about it.

(He knows, as well, that there’s an endless list that could be comprised of their _likeness_ ; both witty and sarcastic, analytical, adept at reading people and knowing just where to toe the line with their teasing. It’s _refreshing_ , Kei thinks, to finally have someone who can keep up with him.)

“Wow, Tsukki, at least _attempt_ to hide your disapproval,” they grin and wave a hand flippantly, “I used to be super shy, you know, always quiet and nervous. I still am, sometimes.”

“I certainly don’t believe _that,”_ Kei points, amused smirk tugging at his lips, _“the_ Kuroo Tetsurou gets nervous? When?”

Kuroo leans further back on their palms and tilts their head lazily, hair falling over their eyes as they give Kei a careful glance, waiting, _looking_ for something—

“Mostly when I’m around pretty guys,” they say slowly, _purposefully_ , intent dripping from their carefully chosen words.

_…Oh._

_Okay._

There it is: the final piece of the puzzle that is Kuroo Tetsurou, the long-awaited confirmation that they do indeed like guys, slotting neatly into place and setting Kei’s face ablaze immediately. He’s certainly not stupid, despite what Tadashi might say about this entire _“crush”_ ordeal; he’s _acutely_ aware of the timing, the searching eyes only a moment before the reveal, the soft tone and the sly brush of their pinky against Kei’s. He’s not exactly being conceited to say that after weeks of build-up, he’s fairly sure that _he’s_ the pretty guy in question.

He would reconsider the wording, if he had to complain, but the concept of Kuroo thinking he’s _pretty_ is distracting him with butterflies in his stomach.

He doesn’t look over at them to confirm his suspicions, too embarrassed with the subtlety of the confession, but he doesn’t _need_ to, not when he can feel a warm gaze burning into him, curious and patient.

Kuroo’s words linger in the air between them, a simple statement that shouldn’t hold as much weight as it does, but it hangs with tension like it’s up to Kei to either push them away or let them in.

(He had made that choice long ago, really, and he knows it. He’s sure Kuroo knows it, too. Neither of them would be sat here—huddled on the sidewalk past midnight, shoulders pressed together and hands brushing and faces flushed with an almost childish embarrassment, something refreshing and new and _inviting_ —if they hadn’t already made up their minds about their stupidly obvious feelings for each other.)

Bokuto and Kageyama continue guiding Hinata through learning a new trick, the three of them in their own little world as Kei and Kuroo are, the mere distance of a single road between the two groups but mentally occupying such different spaces; Kei draws his knees up to his chest, clasping his hands loosely around them before beginning to nervously fidget with his fingers. There’s a gentle, almost timid atmosphere curling around the two of them, and Kei eventually shifts his gaze to the side to look over at Kuroo.

They’re looking out at the skating, like Kei was moments ago, but the tips of their ears are tinged red—not from the cold, Kei suspects—and their foot is tapping restlessly against their board, now, antsy and nervous.

If Kei has learnt anything at all from Kuroo Tetsurou and their stupid toothy grin and pretty face and ridiculously endearing life advice, it’s _“fuck it”_.

“Hey,” he quietly gets their attention, watching as they jump slightly before turning to face him with an inquisitive and vaguely _anxious_ stare, “do you want to hang out sometime?”

And then, to maybe ease the weight of the question, because he needs this lingering pressure to disappear, he adds on, _“not_ at the skatepark, I mean.”

Everything else in the world seems to vanish as the silence stretches on, a second passing, two, before Kuroo’s mouth twitches into a sickeningly sweet grin. They sit up straight, as confident as ever, and lean forward an inch into Kei’s space, eyes sparkling with a mysterious mirth like they _understand_ ; the unspoken confirmation that Kei has tucked away their confession, accepting, and the air is now laced with the soft feeling that something might have changed between them—Kei doesn’t mind it at all.

“Like, a date?” Kuroo teases, and Kei can’t help rolling his eyes in amusement at their accidentally giddy tone, enthusiasm overshadowing any attempts at feigning a cool casualness, “because I’d love to.”

Kei tries to hold back a smile of his own, feels his cheeks tensing slightly with the restraint, and Kuroo only beams wider.

“I’ll call you,” they say casually, nudging their shoulder against Kei’s, “we’ll arrange something.”

Kei nods, offering a quiet _“okay”_ , and stretches his legs back out to rest in front of him. His hands fall to the ground at his side, resting naturally atop the cold concrete, and he’s not at all surprised when he feels the cautious brush of Kuroo’s fingers reaching out to intertwine with his. He lets them, cheeks burning and eyes averted when he gently squeezes their connected hands, and the soft huff of barely-there laughter from his side brings a content smile to his face.

If he barely says another word for the rest of the night, he’s sure that the secret handholding between their bodies is enough to speak _volumes_.

* * *

When Kei hears a familiar knock at his apartment door, recognising the specific pattern of knocks as something only _Kuroo_ ever does, it takes everything in him not to completely freeze up.

He _does_ hesitate for a moment, fingers fidgety and stomach twisting with butterflies as he finds himself glancing in the mirror yet again. He honestly can’t remember the last time he cared this much about his appearance, but he can’t exactly remember the last time he went on a date, either—or, at least, hung out with another human being while both of you are _deftly_ aware of the romantic feelings you’re harbouring for one another.

He wills himself not to slip into an anxiety attack or the like right now, because he’ll _never_ hear the end of it from Tadashi if he were to say _“hey, actually, I didn’t go out with Kuroo like I said I was going to, because I suddenly got scared and nervous and I stared at my reflection too long and I stopped recognizing my own face, so, I stayed in and ate two whole tubs of ice-cream and I feel like shit about it”_.

That’s not based upon prior experience, or anything.

Another knock at the door startles Kei from his lingering, and he takes a deep breath— _in, out_ —before opening it.

Kuroo is as handsome as ever, their outfit dark and stylish—a perfectly-fitting black t-shirt stretched around their lean torso, tucked neatly into their grid-patterned trousers, various pieces of shiny jewellery decorating their hands and wrists—but their hair, like _always_ , refuses to be tamed. Kei wouldn’t have it any other way, at this point.

Something is slightly different about them, and Kei can’t quite place what it is until he steps out into the hall, locking his apartment door behind him, and then turns to look _up_ at Kuroo.

“Are you… _taller?"_ He pauses for a second, noticing Kuroo’s shoes—ankle boots with a short heel on them—and immediately quirks an amused smile, “seriously?”

“These are my nice shoes!” Kuroo exclaims, stepping back and showing them off, laughing a little as they rotate their foot around, “you’ve only ever seen me in dirty sneakers, I figured I should make an effort.”

Kei snickers quietly and then fidgets with pushing his glasses up, unsure of proper _“date”_ etiquette and hoping his nervousness isn’t ridiculously apparent.

“You didn’t need to make an effort,” he says casually, waving a hand dismissively and avoiding Kuroo’s eyes when they glance at him with an eyebrow raised, “you once wore the same sweatpants for a week, yet here I am, still agreeing to go on a date with you.”

Kuroo’s responding scoff is obnoxiously loud.

“I already told you, it was five different pairs of _very similar_ sweats, they weren’t the same pair.”

They step in front of Kei, then, bending down slightly to meet his averted gaze and giving a smug grin.

“Regardless, I think I detected a hint of flattery in there _somewhere,”_ they wink, and then they quickly step back, blatantly eyeing Kei from head to toe before tilting their head and raising their eyebrows in faux-shock, “did _you_ make an effort? For _me?”_

Kei quickly folds his arms, cheeks flushing, and scowls when Kuroo only chuckles.

“Come on, you look as beautiful as ever,” they wave their hand in front of Kei, wiggling their fingers dramatically, “shall we go?”

“Wow, _walking,”_ Kei grins as he takes Kuroo’s hand in his, “that’s rare for you.”

Kuroo laughs cutely as the two head out of Kei’s apartment complex and into the quiet evening streets of Tokyo.

They had agreed on the phone—through awkward mumbles and embarrassed laughter—to take it easy, nothing more than a casual get-together between two friends.

(“Well, like, as more than friends, I guess,” Kuroo had explained poorly, nervousness evident in their tone as Kei giggled to himself.)

It’s late in the evening, streets somewhat empty and the moon just barely peeking out from behind some clouds in the sky, and the two walk hand-in-hand out of a ramen restaurant after Kuroo had insisted on paying for dinner, much to Kei’s disapproval. Their heels click rhythmically against the sidewalk, an oddly comforting noise as Kei inches closer to their side, joined hands swinging between them and Kuroo’s other hand waving animatedly as they talk about something or other—not that Kei isn’t paying attention, because he _is_ , he just also happens to be vaguely transfixed by their beauty.

He’s running out of ways to elaborate on the fact that he thinks Kuroo Tetsurou is absolutely gorgeous, ethereal, an otherworldly beauty that just isn’t able to be transcribed to words; it’s not fair, the way their hair curls perfectly underneath their ears, the little quirk of the corner of their mouth when they smile and the soft dimple that presses into their cheek, the sparkle in their dark eyes that shines brighter than any light Kei has ever seen.

He hopes his palm isn’t sweaty or noticeably clammy. He’s a mess compared to Kuroo, untameable wavy hair and dorky glasses and uneven freckles. He’s _really_ not sure how he managed to wind up in this situation.

“Tsukki?” Kuroo squeezes his hand, drawing his attention back to the conversation at hand, “you still there?”

“Yeah,” Kei ignores Kuroo’s _knowing_ little laugh, “what were you saying?”

“I was _saying,”_ they drawl, dragging out the syllables obnoxiously, “we should grab some snacks and then sit down somewhere, maybe. Spend some time talking.”

 _All you’ve done this entire time is talk_ , Kei wants to say, and he wants to add on that he doesn’t mind, that he _likes_ it, likes Kuroo’s soft voice and the way they talk enough for the both of them, not at all bothered by Kei’s short responses and awkward fumbling through a barely-there conversation, content to smile at him reassuringly and then continue rambling. Kei likes listening to Kuroo talk about _anything_.

Still, he nods, happy to spend as much time with Kuroo as the evening will allow.

“Sure,” he gestures vaguely towards a _konbini_ down the street, “are you going to let me pay this time?”

Kuroo beams widely, _dangerously_ , and shakes their head.

“Not a chance.”

It’s all the warning Kei gets before he’s hastily pulled along, letting out a surprised laugh and tightening his hold on Kuroo’s hand as they _run_ towards the store.

They eventually end up sat in a small park area, away from the main streets and surprisingly secluded, not a single person around, and Kuroo is pouring out the bag of freshly-purchased snacks onto the grass between the two of them. Kei doesn’t hesitate to pick out the ice-cream mochi he had specifically requested for himself, strawberry flavour, and Kuroo only grins as they grab a handful of sour candy and drop it into their own lap.

Their legs are outstretched in front of them, feet kicking idly—odd to see them without a skateboard underneath—and bumping against where Kei is sat opposite them, his own legs folded neatly so as not to take up space; something Kuroo never seems to have a problem with—not so much taking up space, but just being _present_ , loud in even their mannerisms. Where Kei is quiet and careful, Kuroo is unashamedly boisterous, and it’s _endearing_. It’s another of the many things that Kei likes about them.

He looks up, watching the way they meticulously unwrap a piece of candy, their black nails glittering in the soft evening glow of the sunset, and then obnoxiously tossing the sweet into their mouth. Kei, _naturally_ , rolls his eyes, and Kuroo immediately huffs out a little laugh like they _knew_ they’d receive such a reaction.

They wait a few seconds, thankfully finishing their candy before daring to speak—because Kei isn’t sure _what_ he would do, at this point, if Kuroo were to be the type of person to talk with their mouth full—and they tilt their head as they give a warm smile.

“You really do look nice, tonight, Tsukki,” they say genuinely, folding the candy wrapper between their fingers as they talk, “you always look nice, but, I figured I’m allowed to compliment you, now.”

Kei’s cheeks warm but he laughs lightly and gives a small shrug.

“You’ve always been _allowed,”_ he fidgets with tearing open the wrapper of his mochi, cold in his clammy palms, “I’m surprised you haven’t been blatant about this before.”

Kuroo, in the midst of leaning over to throw their trash into the empty carrier bag, suddenly groans.

“Please don’t start,” they whine, sitting back up and then dramatically throwing their arms into the air, “I’ve been trying to hit on you for weeks!”

Kei doesn’t want to believe that, if only because he doesn’t want to admit that he’s been a complete and utter idiot in _ignoring_ Kuroo’s flirting for so long. He turns his face away, a redundant gesture when he knows even his ears are red, but he glances out at the quiet streets as he takes a bite of his mochi. He’s ridiculously hyperaware of the noise of Kuroo shuffling nearer to him, their thigh pressing against Kei’s knees.

“I could never tell if I was just too subtle, or if you were ignoring me as a way of rejecting me,” Kuroo says, their voice closer now, unfairly sincere, and Kei feels the need to look at them properly.

They’re blushing, awkward and cute, and their skin is almost glowing in the sunlight, fresh and inviting and so _perfect_ , cheekbones sparkling with a faint dusting of glitter and their lips glistening with the sheen of transparent gloss. As if Kei could _ever_ reject someone like Kuroo.

“I knew you were flirting,” he confesses, quickly continuing on, “I just thought that… it was your personality, I guess. You never told me you were into guys until a few days ago, so I didn’t want to assume—”

Kuroo’s eyes widen almost comically so, mouth dropping open for a second before they put their hands over their face and groan loudly. Kei raises an eyebrow and takes another bite of his mochi, waiting patiently for a response. Kuroo mumbles something into their palms, muffled, and then drags their hands down their face.

“I forgot to tell you I like guys,” they repeat, “oh my _God.”_

Their ears are bright red, barely visible as they duck their head back down to make more pained noises into their hands, and all Kei can do is burst into a sudden giggle of laughter. He covers his mouth weakly, shaking his head when Kuroo peers up through the gaps in their fingers, and then waves his hand dismissively as he tries to stop laughing.

“Sorry,” he pushes his glasses up at the side, “I’m not laughing at you.”

He pauses, tilting his head, and then shrugs.

“Actually, I kind of am,” he grins, “you’re an _idiot_ , Kuroo Tetsurou.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kuroo is beaming, eyes sparkling and crinkled at the corners, and then they lean forward slightly, a miniscule gap between the two of them as they say, “and _you_ have the prettiest laugh I’ve ever heard, Tsukishima Kei.”

Kei doesn’t back away from the proximity, for what it’s worth, but he _knows_ his face is even redder than before, which doesn’t seem possible because he feels like he’s literally on _fire_. He’s always been easily embarrassed with compliments alone, affection is a whole other level that he can’t even _begin_ to unpack, not when Kuroo is apparently so unashamed of their words, quick to call Kei things like _“beautiful”_ and _“pretty”_ without so much as a second of hesitation.

He finishes eating his mochi, biding his time for a minute or two as he settles, willing his heart to stop pounding in his chest and the butterflies to stop stirring in his stomach so he can at least _pretend_ that he’s not falling apart at his carefully-held-together seams. Kuroo has that way about them, the ability to just step into Kei’s life and easily mess up every precaution Kei had previously set in place to stop people from doing this _exact_ thing, from getting too close, because Kuroo has wormed their way in and made a home and Kei doesn’t have the heart to tell them to leave—he doesn’t _want_ to, either, and that’s the most terrifying part, he thinks, to admit that he’s happy to have let Kuroo in.

(Because he _did_ , didn’t he? Sure, Kuroo is pushy and talkative and they wear that smirk plastered on their face like they’re rife with nothing but confidence; except they had said it themself, that if Kei didn’t want to talk to Kuroo, then he simply wouldn’t, and they’re _right_. Kei has a strong vocabulary. He’s perfected his glares and scowls. He knows he could have said _“fuck off”_ at any point and Kuroo would have.

He didn’t, because he didn’t ever _want_ to.)

“I’m not sure that I ever told you I’m gay,” Kei says then, thinking back, as he reaches to place his mochi wrapper in the trash bag.

Kuroo laughs quietly, a short chuckle under their breath, which Kei agrees is probably well-deserved—he’s frequently joked about how he might as well have _“ga_ y _”_ written across his forehead, sometimes.

“No, but, _uh,”_ Kuroo scratches at the back of their neck awkwardly, sheepishly glancing at Kei, “Hinata let slip that you and Kageyama used to date, so…”

It’s Kei’s turn to be flustered, now, drawing his knees up to his chest and burying his face as he involuntarily mimics Kuroo’s groan from earlier. He can hear the blood rushing in his ears, pulse thumping, and he lifts his head just enough to peek out at Kuroo, glaring weakly at the smug smirk plastered on their handsome face.

“Stop that,” he says, waving a hand to gesture vaguely at Kuroo, “stop pulling that face. I can practically _hear_ you mocking me.”

“Not mocking,” they shrug and lean back to rest their weight on their palms. Kei tries not to eye the way the sleeves of their t-shirt stretch snug around their toned arms, “just thinking about how cute you are when you’re embarrassed.”

Kei sits up properly, now, lowering his knees and crossing his legs neatly.

 _“Only_ when I’m embarrassed?” He teases, watching Kuroo’s eyebrow quirk with poorly hidden interest, not missing the way they immediately shift to sit forward again.

“Of course not,” they say, soft but sincere, making Kei’s hands suddenly feel shaky, “you’re gorgeous _all_ the time.”

And then, like Kei needed anything else to reduce him to a flushing, awkward mess, Kuroo decides to add on, “you don’t know how badly I’ve wanted to kiss you these past few weeks.”

Something twists in Kei’s chest, hot and heavy and not at all unwelcome, a warmth coursing throughout his entire body as a newfound anticipation settles in the cool air around them; Kuroo eyes him nervously, like they’re unsure of how Kei might respond to their confession, as if Kei hasn’t been thinking the same thing for _days_ , as if the two of them haven’t been throwing compliments back and forth all night now, an obvious and blatant display of their reciprocated feelings for one another.

He steadies his hands, fights back the urge to link his fingers together and pick at his nails, restless and antsy, and swallows down any lingering anxiety.

“Well,” he starts, voice barely reaching above a whisper, “you can kiss me now, if you want.”

Kuroo’s eyes widen for a split second before they smile and offer a quiet _“okay”_ as they nod. It’s so ridiculously dorky and awkward, the set-up, the entire situation at hand, but it’s so _them_ that Kei isn’t even bothered at all—in fact, he enjoys it, the way everything is so perfect because it’s _Kuroo_ ; it could _never_ be bad.

It’s quiet and secluded in the park they’re in, but just to be sure, Kei gives a casual glance around to check there’s no people nearby before he shuffles closer to Kuroo, rolling his eyes at their little huff of laughter as the two end up sitting opposite each other, legs crossed and knees bumping.

They spend a second— _two, three_ —simply looking at each other, soft and relaxed, until Kuroo eventually makes the first move, leaning forward and slowly, _shyly_ , tucking Kei’s hair behind his ear. It’s a sickeningly sweet gesture followed by a somewhat tentative pause, and Kei glances down his nose at Kuroo’s lips before pressing forward, tilting his head a little so his glasses don’t bump against Kuroo’s face, and closing the gap between them.

Kissing Kuroo Tetsurou is nothing like how Kei thought it would be.

It’s _better_.

Nothing could have ever prepared him for the gentle, barely-there sound of Kuroo humming contently against his lips, or the way they slide one of their hands around the back of his neck to thread their fingers into the curls resting there, their other hand settling softly on his jaw as their thumb rubs idly against his cheek, comforting and sweet. There’s no rush, the pace calm and leisurely as their lips slot together almost _perfectly_ , and Kei’s own hands are resting lazily atop Kuroo’s broad shoulders, his eyes closed and his cheeks warm and his lips vaguely sticky with traces of Kuroo’s lip-gloss.

They kiss until Kei is huffing out a breath through his nose, needing to catch some air for a second, and Kuroo pulls away with a similar sigh, leaving their forehead pressed against Kei’s; they bump their nose against his, just a small nudge, but Kei’s heart swells at the cuteness of such a gesture. It takes a second before their eyes flutter open, pupils blown, and Kei takes in the pretty flush of pink dusted along their cheeks, the slight tint of redness to their lips when they let out a soft laugh.

Kei subconsciously licks his lower lip, a gesture that doesn’t go unnoticed by Kuroo, their eyes darting down, and Kei pauses then, tongue poking out of his mouth slightly as he leans away from Kuroo and curiously lifts a hand to his mouth.

“Is this…” he glances up at Kuroo, “is your lip-gloss _strawberry flavoured_?”

There’s a beat of silence before Kuroo grins, wide and unabashed.

“Yeah,” they nod, “you like strawberries, right?”

Kei is certain that he _looks_ like a strawberry right now.

He makes a strange noise that he’ll _vehemently_ deny if Kuroo were to ever bring it up, something between a whine and a groan, and slumps forward in defeat to rest his head on Kuroo’s shoulder. They immediately— _naturally_ —accommodate for him in their space, looping their arms casually around his waist and toying distractedly with the thick fabric of his cardigan.

“You really are an idiot,” Kei mumbles against them, moving to bury his flushed face in the junction between neck and shoulder, counteracting his disgustingly sweet cuddling with pinching lightly at Kuroo’s side, right where hip curves into waist.

They bark out a sharp laugh.

“An idiot that you kissed,” they reply, teasing as always, one of their hands settling in Kei’s hair as they begin to gently thread their fingers through the curls.

Kei doesn’t hesitate to pinch them again.

* * *

(“Hey,” Kuroo tugs lightly on Kei’s arm, the one interlinked with theirs, as they head up the stairs to Kei’s apartment, “are we officially boyfriends, now?”

The bag of forgotten snacks hangs from Kuroo’s fingers, almost full, once again being given to Kei with the insistence of _“they’re yours, Tsukki, don’t try and argue with me”_.

“Are you okay with that wording?” Kei asks, “boyfriend?”

“Huh?” They pause before making a small noise, a sudden and understanding _“ah”_ , and then laugh under their breath, “yeah, yeah, boyfriend is fine.”

There’s a soft _“thank you”_ being added on after, and Kei smiles, nodding as he reaches his free hand into his pocket to fish out his keys, door in sight.

“Then yes,” he says, stopping when they reach his apartment, “we’re officially boyfriends.”

“Good,” is all Kuroo says before leaning down, gently pressing Kei back against his front door and kissing him goodnight.

Kei is left flustered and speechless—not for the first time, around Kuroo Tetsurou—and when Kuroo disappears with a small wave and a wink, a shout of _“I’ll call you!”,_ all Kei can do is smile stupidly.

He fumbles getting into his apartment and drops his keys _three_ separate times.)

* * *

Tsukishima Kei has a very simple schedule to his life.

He wakes up, responds to a text or two from his brother, responds to tens of texts from his boyfriend—which, in the middle of typing a reply, he’ll inevitably be roped into a _very_ long phone call from said boyfriend—goes to work, comes home, and calls Tadashi as he heads to the skatepark with two enthusiastic idiots in tow.

This never used to be his routine, and in fact, there are plenty of days where it’s _not_ ; days where something will throw him off and he’ll be stuck in a rut, in a bad mood, traipsing his apartment and sadly working through his secret snack pile as he lets the television drone on with meaningless background noise.

But Kei thinks, as he sits lazily atop the deck of the halfpipe and kicks his feet against the coping below, with Tetsurou’s arm flung comfortably around his shoulders and with Hinata pointing up at them both, hollering an obnoxiously loud _“aww!”_ as Bokuto laughs and Kageyama shakes his head in amusement—well, Kei _knows_ that his problems haven’t magically gone away, that he’s still the same person he always was and that he’s still going to feel like shit sometimes for no reason at all; but he _thinks_ , at the very least, that maybe he’s not quite so alone anymore.

Maybe he’s settled.

Maybe, when Bokuto tries to coerce Kei into learning to skate for the hundredth time, and when Tetsurou replies back with a loud laugh of _“stop trying to kill my boyfriend!”,_ maybe he belongs.

It’s certainly a start.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading!!   
> find me on _[twitter](https://twitter.com/cryptozoologys)_ mayhaps and have a lovely day/evening/night! <3


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